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The trip to Jon’s flat is awkward.
Some of that awkwardness stems from the fact that Martin doesn't really...do the casual sex thing, normally. Let alone with a coworker. Let alone with three coworkers at once. (Is this a casual sex thing? God, he doesn’t even know. He's so out of his depth here.)
The remainder of the awkwardness comes from the fact that it could not possibly be any more obvious to any outside observer that the four of them are on their way to a hookup. There are only so many reasons for a blushing type O guy to be escorted down the street by three twitchy-looking type As, like a medieval princess flanked by a trio of intensely hormonal bodyguards, and none of those reasons are particularly - ha - safe for work. Someone actually wolf-whistles at them, at one point, resulting in a variety of rude gestures and noises of aggravation from Martin’s three, uh, companions. He should probably stop thinking of them as coworkers. At least until they’re done sleeping with him.
Thank God Jon lives close enough that they don’t have to take the tube. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to shove Jon, Tim, and Sasha into an enclosed space with a bunch of strangers, in their current state of mind. Martin can't even imagine what the four of them must be broadcasting on the olfactory level. There’s a good chance they wouldn’t even be allowed to board.
As he walks, Martin buzzes with a heady cocktail of anxiety, anticipation, and pure, instinctual giddiness. Every time he looks at the others, some ancient piece of his mammal DNA starts purring and kneading the back of his brain, saying yes, good, three lovers, three strong, smart, kind lovers, they will be good to us, we will be so good for them, yes, yes, yes-
Meanwhile, the wondering, worrying part of Martin’s higher thoughts is nervously weighing the pros and cons of this incredibly impulsive decision he’s just made, envisioning all of the potentially disastrous effects on his life, his career, his financial status, shit, he really didn’t think this through, did he-
And then Tim lays a reassuring hand on the small of his back, and the scale in Martin’s mind instantly tips hard towards the horny side. Seconds later, Martin is mortified by a chorus of interested noises on all sides of him, accompanied by sidelong glances and flared nostrils. Jon is pursing his lips like he wants to flehmen and he’s resisting the urge.
“Tim, not now,” Jon mutters, in a voice that’s probably meant to be scolding, but mostly just sounds pained.
“What? I hardly did anything!”
“Oh my God, shut up,” says Martin, in an equally pained tone of voice. It’s not cold enough to justify wearing a jacket, which is a shame, because he really wouldn’t mind putting his hood up and pulling it down over his face right now.
Sasha finds one of Martin’s hands and brings it to her lips, pressing a kiss against his knuckles. Martin can feel the lipstick marks she just left. “Aw, don’t be embarrassed, baby. We’re glad you’re looking forward to it.”
Martin thinks Sasha’s soft, murmuring tone might have been intended to be comforting, but it mostly just succeeds in making Martin’s knees attempt to dissolve into jelly. Like a domino effect, Tim and Jon each take a deep, shaky breath, and then shoot Sasha disgruntled looks.
“God damn it, Sasha, tone it down a little,” Tim growls, reaching down to adjust something through the front of his trousers. Martin is glad he’s not the only one suffering from a not-so-subtle boner. Type O boners might be loud in the olfactory sense - or, at least, Martin’s are, at the moment - but at least they’re not quite as, ah, visible as the type A equivalent.
Sasha just gives them an innocent smile. Ah. Martin is starting to suspect that the sexiness of that gesture wasn’t unintentional, after all.
Through some miracle, the four of them somehow manage to make it to Jon’s block, up the elevator, and into Jon’s flat without getting arrested for public indecency. Martin barely even has time to register what Jon’s flat looks like - a small, neat studio that probably costs three times what it ought to - before he gets thoroughly pounced. As soon as the front door closes behind them, Tim is on Martin like a shot, spooning up behind him and inhaling greedily from the nape of his neck. It's all Martin can do not to moan in response. He should probably try to keep a lid on the blatant sex noises until they've at least kissed, right?
This position is pretty familiar, from the many episodes of Archival Assistant Hug Time they’ve enjoyed together, but instead of the carefully chaste hand positions Martin has come to expect, Tim’s hands are now roaming curiously up and down Martin’s front, investigating the shape of him through the bulk of his jumper. Pressing into the swell of his chest, stroking over the expanse of his belly, both of which are definitely a bit, uh, rounder than they’ve ever been before, what with the whole hormone situation. Martin's brain is full of exclamation points and his pants are full of wet.
Meanwhile, Sasha and Jon watch from the sidelines; Sasha with an indulgent expression, leaning against the wall like she’s enjoying the show, and Jon with a look of wide-eyed, hand-twitching fascination that makes Martin feel extremely exposed. Martin is used to doing this with one person on either side of him. Doing it with just Tim, in front of the others, makes him feel like he’s being put on display, somehow. Martin doesn’t even know if it’s in a good way or a bad way. Mostly he just feels like he can’t look at Jon or Sasha for too long without risking melting into a puddle.
Tim leans forward to whisper into Martin’s ear. “Martin, can I look? Can I see?”
Martin makes a face. Like, yeah, it’s kind of a given that nudity is probably going to be part of the proceedings, at some point, but the idea of just- just immediately whipping his shirt off so three people can stare at his chubby, stretch-marked self, when none of the others are even undressed yet, is. It's. Um.
"Can I touch without looking?" Tim pivots instantly, in a bargaining sort of way.
"Tim." Huh. It's kind of a novelty to hear Jon’s admonishing tone directed at someone other than Martin, for a change.
Martin, however, finds that he is down with this compromise. He clears his throat and croaks out a "Yeah? Please?"
Tim makes an “Oh, God, finally” sort of noise, and shoves his hands under Martin’s jumper to grope, making Martin’s knees shake at the sensation of being petted and squeezed in soft, vulnerable places he’s really not used to being touched. Martin's body can't decide whether it wants to yip with surprise or whimper with abject horniness, so it splits the difference and makes some sort of ridiculous quavering sound. Tim groans into Martin's neck like it's the best thing he’s ever heard.
And if Martin had any doubts about Tim’s opinion on the proceedings, well, that sure is an erection pressing against his arse, isn't it. Wow. (Martin thinks this might not be the first time he's felt Tim’s boner, actually. It is, however, the first time it's been deliberately ground against him, rather than awkwardly aimed away. Martin thinks he prefers this way.)
In the course of Tim’s explorations, one of Tim's wandering hands finds a spot in the vicinity of Martin’s navel that makes a high-pitched noise happen. And then he finds it over and over again, while Martin squirms and progresses quickly from suppressed giggles to uncontrollable giggles.
"What was that noise? Have you been holding out on me, Martin?" says Tim, sounding enchanted by the discovery. "I could have been making you squeak this whole time and you didn't tell me?"
Martin bites his lip in a futile attempt to stop himself from making any more dumb sounds, but he literally can’t help it. He can’t seem to stop smiling, either. Oh, Christ, he probably looks like a dork, Tim is making him look like a dork in front of the others, please help, someone save him. It’s nothing short of a miracle that Martin managed to find even one person who was willing to sleep with him, let alone three.
And Martin really cannot hide a single thing, when there's a type A standing this close, can he, because Tim sucks in a deep breath of Martin’s neck and sighs like he's in heaven. "God, yes, gimme that good happy Martin smell. Mmf." Martin jolts slightly when he feels a tongue flick against the underside of his jaw. There's no way Tim can't smell how aroused Martin is right now. How pleased and affectionate and heart-thumpingly nervous he feels. No way Tim can’t taste it. "Boss, you gotta get in on this. You're the only one who hasn't done it yet."
Jon, despite being the owner of the flat they are currently standing in, appears oddly diffident, still hovering off to the side with that strange, hungry expression on his face. He makes a fluttering gesture with his hands. "I...I don't know if that's-"
"You. You can? If you want?" says Martin, hardly believing his own audacity. Something about the feeling of Tim's sturdy bulk against his back might be making him feel brave.
Martin can hear Jon’s breath stutter. He made that happen. That happened for him. "...well. If you're sure."
Jon approaches carefully, like he’s sneaking up on some kind of rare, endangered animal with an expensive camera, trying not to scare it away before he can get a picture. He falters just outside the boundary of Martin’s personal bubble. "I'd, uh, just like to point out that you're under no obligation-"
Martin scrunches his eyes shut, takes a breath through his nose, and prays for mercy. "Jon, I know you can smell how turned on I am, will you please just man up and do something."
"Okay, okay!" And then Jon is finally, finally pressing himself against Martin’s front, bringing his hands to rest on Martin’s hips, right under where Tim’s arms are tucked around his sides. Martin dithers indecisively for a second before he dares to wrap his arms around Jon, tentatively stroking his back through his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body. Martin thinks he detects a slight shiver in response.
Tim’s breath is a reassuring rhythm against Martin’s back as Jon zeros in on the scent gland that sits near Martin’s pulse point, chasing it down like he’s magnetically drawn to it. Martin feels a few warm puffs of air. Jon’s cheek nuzzles against his neck, and then Jon’s nose, followed by a tentative brush of lips that makes Martin’s breath hitch. Martin feels the touch of something wet. And then again, and again, a series of gentle, washing licks, accompanied by a barely audible hum of appreciation from the back of Jon’s throat. It's not even a deliberately sexy kind of licking. It's like Jon is licking for the taste, licking for the sheer pleasure of it, purposeful and increasingly eager. He’s pressing his lips close, nearly sucking, like Martin’s pheromones are ice cream on a spoon, or the last bit of cake batter left in a mixing bowl.
It shouldn’t be hot. It really, really is, though. Every single touch of Jon’s tongue hits Martin like a punch to the gut, like he's being licked somewhere entirely different. It's so much more than he expected. Maybe a little too much.
"Uh. Um. Oh, God." Martin’s thighs squeeze together reflexively. Everything from the waist down feels molten. And then Jon nibbles, tugging the skin with his teeth, and, to Martin’s absolute shock, Martin comes then and there. Tim's arms tighten around him, supporting his weight as Martin’s knees go wobbly. Martin thinks he hears a faint “Holy shit,” from behind him.
It takes a few seconds for Martin’s eyes to regain their ability to focus. When they do, he sees that Jon is staring at him, mouth agape. "Did you just-?"
"No," Martin lies outright. His face is on fire.
"...I see." Jon’s pupils are very large. "Do you. Do you want me to stop?"
"...no," says Martin, this time completely truthfully.
And then Jon fastens his mouth over that particular part of Martin's neck and sucks hard, a proper, hickey-making suck that makes Martin’s toes flex and his eyes try to roll back in his head. He can feel two hard cocks pressing against him now, one from the front, one from behind. He can also feel a few weak, half-hearted contractions happening downstairs, like he’s wringing out the last remnants of that orgasm for all they’re worth, squeezing out every last drop. Or maybe he just came again, a little bit. He’s not totally sure. Jesus. It's almost like being in heat.
Martin is starting to realize that this position probably isn’t going to be sustainable for much longer. His bones feel like they’re made of rubber, and the longer they stand here, the more Tim is obliged to support his weight. Tim may have some impressive arm definition, but Martin isn’t exactly the smallest guy. Especially with all this pretend baby weight he’s carrying.
“Uh, guys- maybe- maybe we should-?” Martin feels less like he’s speaking English and more like he’s struggling his way through a foreign language. Being squeezed between two attractive men is really not doing his IQ any favors.
"Tim, you wanna bring him over here?" says Sasha, in a tone that sounds less like a suggestion than her choice of words would indicate. Sasha must have made her way to Jon’s couch, at some point, and she’s watching them from there, one hand idly tracing the crotch seam of her trousers.
With a slight sense of reluctance, Martin disengages from Tim and Jon, wriggling out of Tim’s grasp and stumbling his way over to the couch before Tim can get any ideas about trying to do something ridiculous, like pick him up and carry him. It’s just the sort of thing Tim would do. Martin doesn’t so much sit as collapse next to Sasha, feeling as flushed as if he’s just completed a hundred meter sprint. Tim plonks down on his other side, putting an arm on the back of the couch in a way that just so happens to encircle Martin’s shoulders.
"Oh, there you are, sweetheart. That's better," Sasha coos at him, using that same gentle tone Martin remembers from before. The one that nearly made Martin roll over at her feet in the middle of a public sidewalk. Sasha cups a hand around the back of Martin’s head and pulls him into a kiss that makes him go wobbly all over again.
“Uh, what should I...?” Martin mumbles when they come up for air, trying to get his thoughts in order. He hasn’t done anything yet. He’s just been standing around letting everyone else do all the work. He should do something.
Sasha strokes a calming hand over his thigh. “You just stay right where you are. You’re doing great.”
And wow, okay, there’s that melting feeling again. Martin watches hazily as Sasha turns her attention to Jon, who appears to be grappling with logistical difficulties related to the fact that his couch isn’t exactly built for four people.
"Plenty of room on the floor, Jon," says Sasha, like a genius. Sasha is so good at being the boss, Martin thinks deliriously. She doesn't bluster and posture. She just...makes it happen.
Jon hesitates, possibly weighing the pros and cons of deferring to Sasha, versus sitting in a position that puts his face right next to Martin’s junk, which must be putting out some seriously high octane pheromones, by now. Martin is so wet he can hardly believe it. He can't even imagine how it must smell. (He hopes it's okay. Martin is suddenly very aware that it's been months since he last had a proper shower. Bird baths from the sink can only do so much.)
Martin shoves that self-conscious thought back down the hole it came out of and spreads his legs a tiny bit wider, like a question. Or a request. That seems to make Jon’s decision for him. Jon drops to the floor, legs folding under him, and nuzzles his face right into the damp patch on Martin’s slacks, inhaling deeply. Then Jon makes a downright indecent noise that makes downright indecent things happen in Martin’s pheromone zone.
"Wow, Jon, don't be shy." Tim’s laughter feels extremely distracting against Martin’s ear. Martin tilts his head a tiny bit, without even realizing what he's asking for, and is rewarded with a lingering kiss on the neck that makes his hips twitch up, jostling Jon’s head slightly where it's snuggled into the crook of his thigh.
"Smell good, Jon?" Sasha prompts, asking the question Martin was too cowardly to voice.
"Like you have to ask." Jon sounds like he's having a religious experience. Martin can relate.
Sasha makes a satisfied sound. Then she leans in close to Martin’s ear and says, "You okay with getting your tits touched, baby?"
Martin makes a sound that hopefully expresses the fact that he has never been more okay with anything in his life. Unfortunately, the feeling of being groped through a thick layer of jumper and sports bra doesn’t quite satisfy. After a minute of handsy snogging with Sasha, Martin finds himself wriggling and muttering, "Ah, shit, hang on."
And then Martin finally sits up and peels off his jumper and bra, privately wishing he’d had the foresight to wear something a bit sexier than this plain black number that’s fraying slightly along the band. And then he has to hastily scrub the nursing pads off his nipples where they’ve gotten a tiny bit clingy, because, uh, apparently his junk isn’t the only part of him that wants to get wet during sexy time, Jesus. Maybe this was a mistake.
Jon’s eyes are wide. Oh, no. "Are you...is that-?"
"Uh, yeah," mumbles Martin, rubbing his nipples self-consciously with his forearm. They’re a bit sore. And perking up very enthusiastically. Do they look pinker than normal? Do they look weird?
"God, I wanna lick those," says Sasha, who apparently still considers herself the official spokesperson of the group.
Martin squirms where he sits, still trying to surreptitiously determine if milk is still coming out of him. He knows the others have some kind of pregnancy...thing, but there’s gotta be a limit, right? "Are you sure? It's not, like...gross?"
The immediate clamor of denial from three voices is admittedly a tiny bit flattering.
And then Sasha brings a hand over to squeeze, massaging gently, rolling Martin’s nipple with her thumb while Tim and Jon watch avidly. That part is embarrassing enough, but at least Martin doesn’t seem to be leaking anymore. He thinks. Except, whoops, he spoke too soon, because Sasha just pinched Martin’s nipple between her thumb and forefingers and pulled, deliberately forcing a trickle of milk out of him like it was nothing, making him jump with shock. He didn’t know she could just...do that. It's usually a whole production for Martin to get himself warmed up enough to clear his pipes. It's been a pain-in-the-arse part of his routine for over a month at this point.
Tim and Jon, for some reason, make simultaneous breathy noises of enrapturement at the sight, like Sasha just performed a miracle. Then, to Martin’s increasingly flustered incredulity, Sasha brings her fingers up to her mouth and licks, while the others watch with openly envious expressions. Martin will never, ever understand what gets type A people hot. They are total sexual enigmas.
(Martin also has no idea what she’s tasting. He hasn’t tried his own brand. He’s been too busy alternating between ignoring it as hard as possible and reluctantly draining himself into the bathroom sink to make sure everything stays healthy in there. A doctor's appointment for titty troubles is the last thing he needs.)
"God, that's like magic," says Tim, restlessly palming the bulge in his trousers. “What’s the verdict, Sasha? Chai or matcha?”
“Mm. I'd say he's more of an earl grey,” says Sasha. Then she presses a kiss against Martin’s cheek, which is currently burning furiously.
“You guys are so weird." says Martin, in the horniest possible tone of despair.
"Or maybe you're just that hot," Tim suggests. Directly into the most erogenous part of Martin's neck, as it happens. That little dose of flattery hits Martin so hard he actually feels a let down happen, and two little beads of milk appear of their own accord. Uh, great? Thanks, body? You can stop helping now.
(Did Jon just gasp? Did that happen?)
Tim strokes a hand down Martin’s shoulder, pausing right at the boundary between platonic petting and very-much-not-platonic breast groping. "Can I...?"
"Not before I do," says Jon, in a borderline feverish tone of voice that Martin wouldn't have been able to imagine coming out of his mouth if Martin hadn't just heard it with his own two ears.
"He has two, Jon," Sasha points out reasonably.
Martin has given up. This is his life now. "Yeah? Just...gently, they're kind of, uh. Yeah."
"Easy on the goods. Gotcha." And then Tim is gently cupping a breast in one of his big hands, and Jon is clambering halfway into Martin's lap so he can get a nipple into his mouth, and Martin’s body might be seriously considering the idea of a second surprise orgasm before he even manages to get his trousers off. He definitely was not kidding about his tits being kind of "uh, yeah" right now. Though it might be more accurate to say they're "ooh, oh, wow, gosh, ah, mmm, hngh."
One of Sasha’s hands sneaks down to massage between Martin’s legs, feeling him up through his slacks, pressing her thumb down against the place where his dick is hiding. And then she keeps pressing, stroking him with merciless precision, and Martin is pretty sure Jon is actually sucking him now, and- yup, yeah, that’s Martin done, he's coming again, oh, fuck, he's coming, Martin’s consciousness has been taken offline due to technical difficulties, we'll be right back after these messages. Where is that whimpering sound coming from? Oh, that’s his own voice. Okay.
"Aw, look at that sweet boy. You're being so good for us," says Sasha, like having an orgasm was something Martin did specifically to please her. Martin makes a noise of plaintive confusion. He isn't even doing anything. He's just sitting here and letting them touch and smell and taste, but apparently that's enough, because both Jon and Tim are making soft hums of agreement, like Sasha is talking perfect sense.
Okay, you know what? Fine. Martin is a sweet boy. The sweet boy is him. (Oh, he just tightened up again, why do compliments have a direct line to his dick, why did he never know this before.)
(The answer is that he's never been complimented enough to realize it. Shit.)
(And Martin still feels like he could stand to go again, honestly. Type O refractory periods are a marvel of nature. Also, he's pretty sure he has never been more aroused in his life, just in general.)
Sasha Holmes, of course, clocks his train of thought immediately. “You want one of us to fuck you? Say the word, whoever you want, whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy." And oh, God, she's trying to give him an in, he knows both she and Tim know who the answer is.
Martin dares a glance at Jon, who has mercifully taken a pause from taste-testing Martin’s nipple, which means it's at least theoretically possible for Martin to make words happen. Jon is gazing intently up at him, making no attempt whatsoever to contradict Sasha’s claim. His breath is warm against Martin’s chest.
Martin looks away. Chews his lip for a second. "...Jon?"
"Oh," says Jon, who is probably the only person in the room even remotely surprised by this development. Jon sits back on his heels. And then he says "Oh," again, in a slightly different tone of voice, while Martin’s soul endeavors to leave his body.
"Sorry, I just. Wasn't expecting." How was Jon not expecting? How can a man simultaneously be so smart and so, so dumb? "Is this...new?" Jon continues, as Martin’s body decides he is no longer physically capable of looking Jon in the face, and instead directs his eyes to the ceiling.
"Noo." Martin isn't sure if that’s an answer, or just a general objection to his current life circumstances.
"...since when?" Jon really isn't going to let it go, is he.
"Are you asking me to give you a review?" Martin bursts out, as Tim and Sasha progress from stifled snickering to open snickering.
Jon’s mouth is hanging open. He's looking between the three of them with an expression of dawning indignation. "Did everyone know this except me?"
"Literally everyone," Sasha helpfully confirms.
"Everyone in the world." Tim is beaming.
"How did you not smell it?" says Martin, into his hands, which he is currently pressing against his face. "My glands have been shouting everything from the rooftops for months. I know you can smell it."
And then Jon has the unmitigated gall to say, "Well, I thought you were just- I thought it was just, in general-?"
"You thought I was slutty?!" Martin wails, as he sits half-naked on a couch, surrounded by his three extremely aroused coworkers.
"No!" Jon’s shoulders pop up defensively. "I’m sorry, I wasn't- I just. I thought." And then, unforgivably, Jon trails off into the smallest, dumbest, cutest laugh. Every spare corner of Martin immediately fills up with sparkles and heart-eyes emojis.
Aaand now all three of them are staring at Martin like he just turned into a unicorn. Great. Just great. Why did Martin have to pick three type A people to do this with. He could have gone and settled down with a nice type B, but no, he had to pick three people who can detect every stupid, twitterpated emotion that runs through his stupid, twitterpated brain, and now everyone can see all the little valentine hearts popping up around Martin's head like he's a cartoon character.
"Ah," says Jon. He looks stunned. "So that was…"
Martin squeezes his eyes shut. Rest in peace, dignity, it was nice knowing you. "Yes, Jon, that was all for you. Do you want to fuck me or not?"
"Oh! Right, right, yes, of course. Er. Do we need..?"
Martin shakes his head. "Uh, not really? It’s been at least three months since I had a heat. And the, uh." Martin gestures vaguely at his chest situation. "Is supposed to stop...stuff from happening."
"Ah. I suppose that makes sense." Does it? Martin doesn't think anything in his life makes much sense right now.
Sasha scoots slightly off to the side. Martin doesn't understand why, at first, until Jon clambers up to sit next to him, squeezing in close. And then Jon is kissing him, and Martin is kissing back with every ounce of enthusiasm in his body, and oh, there's that sparkling sensation again. With notes of fireworks and anime-style blush marks. Accompanied by a stirring soundtrack of catcalls from both sides of them. Martin feels Jon’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.
"I told you, Jon." Sasha told him what?
"Your point is very much taken." Whatever it was, Jon looks delighted about it. And then he makes a facial expression that Martin can only describe as “mentally buffering,” before he says, “Well, if we’re going to- it would probably be- I’ll just. Right.”
Jon springs from the couch and makes his way, with somewhat stiff shoulders, to his bed, which Martin just now notices isn’t made. Jon starts fussily straightening the covers. He also opens the drawer of his nightstand, sweeps a handful of miscellaneous bedside clutter into it, and closes it again, which shouldn't be as cute as it is. And now Tim and Sasha are looking at Martin again. With big Cheshire Cat grins.
"Really, Marto? That did it for you?" Tim sounds gleeful. They're never going to let him live it down, are they.
"I think it might be his kink." Well, you don't have to rub it in, Sasha.
“Whose kink? What kink?” says Jon, as he looks up from the pillow he’s busy fluffing in a mildly fretful manner. Martin can sympathize. He’d be anxious too if a surprise sex party happened at his flat and he didn’t have enough advance warning to wash his bedding. (Martin really wants to smell that bedding.)
“I refuse to be kink-shamed by three people who think weird fake pregnancies are hot.” Martin replies resolutely. And then he stands up, kicks his shoes off, and starts briskly stripping in a “so there” kind of way, because it gives him an excuse to avoid eye contact with the three people currently looking at him.
“Oh, look how wet,” says Sasha approvingly, as soon as Martin gets his pants down. Martin, despite the fact that he's pretty sure his face can't actually get any redder, tries very hard to spontaneously ignite.
Tim covers his mouth with his hand. "God, that's fucking cute. Most perfect little dick I've ever seen." Scratch that. Martin isn’t going to ignite. Martin is going to explode.
Martin has just finished getting his socks off - he shouldn’t have saved them for last, being naked except for socks is not a good look - when Jon apparently deems his bed acceptable and steps back from it, as though he’s presenting it for Martin to inspect. It’s a mind-boggling reversal of their usual dynamic, but the part of Martin’s hindbrain that craves being pampered in very specific ways preens inanely at the idea of new nest, a new nest prepared by a solicitous lover, a new nest where he can be soft and safe and doted-upon, yes, yes, yes.
Martin thinks his cave man brain might need to tone it down a little. But whatever pheromones he just released do seem to be making Jon’s chest puff up with badly-concealed pride, so maybe it’s okay. Just this once.
There's a part of Martin - a substantial part - that just wants to plant himself face down on the bed, lift up his hips, and let the others do what they will. But the even more substantial part of him wants to be able to see everything that’s about to happen. He’s not in heat, but there’s a ghost of that old impulse, the one that always has Martin rolling and wiggling around by himself in his own lonely bed, with no one to show off for. Now Martin has an audience of three as he puts himself on his back, shows his belly, coyly tilts his head to bare his throat. Oh, my, look how vulnerable and trusting and receptive I am. Won’t some big strong protector come inseminate me?
Under any other circumstances, Martin would feel like a tool, putting on a show like this, as though he’s anything worth looking at. He’s just now discovering how hard it is to keep a grip on your low self-esteem when three of the hottest, smartest, nicest people you’ve ever met are smiling and cooing and exclaiming over you like you’re something remarkable. It makes Martin want to grin and blush like an idiot. It makes him want to spread his legs. He ends up going with a little from column A and a little from column B.
Tim and Sasha come to lie on either side of Martin, distracting him from the intensely interesting sight of Jon taking off his shirt. Martin can’t help but notice that Tim and Sasha are both still fully-clothed, which causes Martin to suffer a flicker of unsureness. He wants them to have fun too.
“Should I...?” Martin begins, as he tries to figure out how to communicate the general sentiment of "I’m not sure I have the coordination to blow and/or stroke two other people off while I’m getting fucked, but I am willing to try my best!"
Tim, who is officially the biggest type A stereotype Martin has ever met, just shakes his head and makes coddling mother-hen noises. “Oh, sweetheart. Just enjoy yourself. Don’t you worry.”
Martin doesn’t actually know if he’s capable of not worrying. He's never managed it before, but he supposes there's a first time for everything. Tim strokes a comforting hand down Martin’s front. And then Tim gives that very specific spot on Martin’s belly a light scritch, which causes Martin’s body to spontaneously imitate a startled pillbug. Or a particularly giggly armadillo.
"Tim!" When Martin said he wanted Tim to have fun, that was not what he meant. Martin is kind of trying for a sexy vibe here! A sexy vibe that does not involve squeaking noises!
Tim does not look even slightly repentant. "What? You're the one who let me find out about your secret laugh button. You can't expect me not to press it."
"Ooh, I wanna try it," says Sasha, like a traitor. Martin regrets everything. Sasha's hands are devious. She has nails. And Martin thinks his body must be confused, because he’s starting to realize that this might be getting him off too, for some fucking reason? And, like magic, he doesn't feel worried anymore, because he's too busy wriggling around and biting his lip to stop himself from doing anything that would annoy Jon’s neighbors, like openly shrieking with laughter because he's delicate in certain places, okay, and Tim and Sasha are being very mean to those places right now. Aah, he's already had two orgasms, how is his dick this hard, how is this even possible.
"Oh, you like it. Don't pretend you don't." Tim calls him out mercilessly. This man has far too much mischief in him. Martin’s soft spots will never be safe again.
"He was asking for it. Rolling over and showing us the cutest belly in the world." Okay, maybe he was, Sasha! You don't have to sound so smug about it! Even though it’s not- it's not really- Sasha smooches Martin on the forehead before he can do more than half-heartedly protest that he's pretty sure it's not actually the cutest in the world.
"Alright, settle down, you two," says Jon, who must have gotten himself out of the rest of his clothes at some point, while Martin was distracted by Tim and Sasha being evil. Martin is a bit disappointed to have missed the show. He's very much not disappointed to see that Jon’s- his- Jon looks very- Jon appears enthusiastic about the proceedings. And...substantial. Size-wise. Hoo, boy.
Jon notices the direction of Martin’s stare and kind of...shifts in place, in a deliberately casual way, like he’s actively trying not to look awkward about his- about the- about the situation. Tim takes it upon himself to express Martin’s unspoken thoughts via impressed whistle.
“Oh, who asked you,” grumbles Jon, looking reluctantly pleased. And maybe slightly bashful. Shy isn't a concept that Martin normally associates with Jon, but now that it's happening before his eyes, it feels perfect, better than a fantasy. Like seeing the real person behind his stern, scowling boss, fumbling his way through an unfamiliar sexual situation, like any other guy. Martin is learning a lot of new things about Jon today. He’s looking forward to learning a few more very shortly.
And then Jon is crawling into place between Martin’s legs, which just decided to go ahead and spread themselves a little wider, as if Jon needed the hint. Martin takes a moment to enjoy the sensation of having Jon looming over him, which is a bit of a novelty, given their relative heights. Jon takes himself in hand and gives himself a stroke, though it doesn’t look like he really needs the help, hardness-wise. Martin is on the edge of his metaphorical seat.
Jon makes eye contact with Martin, looks away, and then says, with that same overcompensating, carefully not-awkward demeanor, "I don't usually...it's, ah, been a while since…"
Tim snickers into his hand. "You afraid you're gonna bust right away?"
"I'd like to see you fare better," grouses Jon, with a somewhat defensive set to his shoulders.
"Maybe you will," says Tim, like it's a given that he's going to have a turn. Oh, man. Oh, wow. Oh, yeah.
And, okay, yeah, there's no hiding the fact that the idea of Jon coming inside Martin, and then Tim and Sasha doing the same thing, the three of them making a mess of him, has just made Martin somehow impossibly wetter. Martin doesn't say a word, but there are smiles and chuckles from all sides, like he just started begging for it. Which he basically is.
With an intensely observant expression, Jon brings a hand down to investigate his destination. A bit of reconnaissance, Martin thinks hysterically. Martin shivers at the sensation of gentle fingers tracing his labia, of a thumb stroking over the shaft of his dick. Jon even takes a moment to pet Martin’s pubic hair, which, yes, is also fairly wet, because Martin’s body is currently very determined to lubricate every single thing, whether it needs lubricating or not, thank you for noticing, Jon. Martin is, in fact, wet all the way back to his butthole, in case you were wondering!
Jon shuffles closer, the front of his thighs pressing against the back of Martin’s. And then, like a surreal real-life culmination of hundreds of Martin’s guilty daydreams, Jon lines himself up and finally pushes in. Martin makes a blissful noise of appreciation that makes various happy sounds happen around him in return. It's a bit of a tight fit - okay, more than a bit - but Martin is so fucking primed right now he's pretty sure he could take Jon’s whole forearm without significant strain, and oh, wow, that's a thought to put in his back pocket, isn't it.
It takes a bit of doing for Jon to get himself all the way in - partially because Jon is exercising a slightly excessive degree of caution, in Martin’s humble opinion - but that’s probably better than a lack of caution, when you’re packing equipment that size - also, holy fuck, that’s deep, Martin didn’t know it went that deep - but anyway, anyway, anyway, where was he, Martin can’t remember, his brain has officially left the building. Oh, right. Jon is inside him. Jon is buried to the hilt, and his balls are brushing against Martin’s arse, and Martin is in literal heaven. That is the current situation.
When Jon puts things on pause for a minute after getting himself fully seated, Martin’s first assumption is that Jon is trying to give him time to adjust. The more he looks at Jon, though, the more he’s starting to think that Jon might be the one who needs a minute. Jon’s eyes are closed now, and his head is slightly bowed. He looks like he’s concentrating hard on something.
“Deep breaths, boss. You can do it,” Tim heckles from the sidelines. Jon’s words are apparently failing him, because the only response Tim gets is a curled lip.
Martin feels his inner muscles give a tiny, coaxing squeeze, like hey, if you wanna come right now that would be totally cool, actually. Jon makes a mildly tortured sound. He leans in a bit harder and grinds against Martin, a slight rocking motion. And then, almost gingerly, Jon pulls out and pushes back in, a slow, shallow thrust, like he’s trying to acclimate himself to the sensation. Martin is pretty sure he just saw Jon shudder. Holy shit. Martin has never felt more powerful in his life.
Experimentally, Martin tries deliberately tightening himself up. Jon gives a low groan that goes straight to Martin’s dick. Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. To hell with the idea of sexual performance. Martin feels so good on Jon’s cock that Jon is visibly struggling not to have an orgasm, and that is fucking hot. End of story.
Over the course of the next few minutes, Jon gradually works his way up to proper thrusting, forceful snaps of his hips that make noises when they connect, the soft sound of thigh against thigh. Martin’s legs are wrapped around the back of Jon’s, like he could somehow pull him closer. Jon’s eyes are still closed, and he’s still wearing an expression like he’s doing mental calculus, which is more endearing than it has any right to be.
“So, is it everything you dreamed it would be?” says Sasha, with the smug satisfaction of a woman who has just handed Martin his dearest wish on a silver platter, and knows it.
Martin is about to whine at Sasha to quit teasing him, because Jon doesn’t need to know about those dreams, okay, those are Martin’s private dreams - but he doesn’t get the chance, because Jon, to Martin’s shock, beats him to the punch, and murmurs a quiet “Yes.”
Tim bursts into delighted laughter. He’s watching Jon’s cock pumping in and out of Martin like it’s his favorite episode of his favorite show. “I can’t believe how cute you two are. Why did it take us so long to do this. We could have been doing this from the start.”
Sasha nods sagely. “This is why I keep saying we need a suggestion box.”
“I’ll take that - hm - into consideration,” says Jon, in a tone of considerable strain.
Tim hums happily. "God, look at that dick. I can't get over it. It's like a perfect little mouthful." Well, there can be no doubt about which of them Tim is talking about, can there.
And then Tim’s hand ventures down to say hi to Martin’s totally average-sized type O dick, thanks, petting it with an affectionate fingertip. Martin doesn't normally get quite so, ah, visibly hard, but his dick must be really giving its all today, because his boner is sticking out like a neon please touch here! sign. Tim starts to gently stroke the shaft, curling his finger up and down in little teasing motions that are already threatening to give Martin another orgasm. God, no wonder Jon thought he was easy.
Martin knows he's a goner when Sasha starts playing with his nipples, pinching them like she’s toying with the idea of making milk come out again, which fills Martin with some kind of bizarre humiliated excitement that he has no idea what to do with. Sasha knows, she fucking knows, Martin sees that smirk. "Does that feel good? Are you gonna come for us?"
Martin's only reply is to just go ahead and do that, hips shaking desperately, his dick twitching helplessly against Tim's finger, his hole squeezing insistently around Jon’s cock. And Jon’s body seems to take that as its cue, because his thrusts become frantic, and then slow and stop, and Martin starts to feel pulses of warmth on the inside.
"Good job, boss! You made it!" says Tim, in what might actually be a sincerely congratulating tone. Jon makes no reply, other than a low noise in the back of his throat as his knot starts to swell, tying them firmly together.
And the expression on Martin’s face - or the pheromones coming out of his glands, more likely - must be doing a good enough job of broadcasting what he wants, because Jon leans forward to kiss him, and Jon’s tongue in his mouth, and Jon’s knot in his- God, how is this even happening, it's like some kind of sexual fever dream. Jon’s knot is putting delicious pressure on some internal button of Martin’s, grinding hot and hard against parts that usually only experience the inadequate touch of fingers or silicone.
With Tim and Sasha’s help, Martin manages one more weak, fluttering orgasm before Jon’s knot goes down. Martin feels accomplished. And sweaty. When Jon finally pulls out, a good amount of Jon’s come flows out along with him, dripping down Martin’s arse, dribbling onto Jon’s bedding. Ah. Hm. That's probably not good?
"Oh, no, the bed," Martin mumbles, because he's pretty sure leaking come all over your host's stuff must be against some sort of rule. Somebody should have put down a towel.
Jon presses a kiss to his temple. "Shh. I don't mind."
Martin isn't so sure about that, knowing Jon’s fastidious nature. He’s too tired to argue about it, though. No wonder, after the workout the others have been giving him. Martin is starting to get kind of tired, honestly, but he's not ready for this to end. There’s a part of him that’s still not sure if he’s ever going to get to do this again, once it’s over.
“You ready for a break, sweetheart?” says Sasha, because Martin apparently isn’t doing a good enough job of hiding the way his eyelids are drooping. Martin whimpers a nooo that makes all three of them laugh.
“Okay. You just chill. Let us do the work. How does that sound?” It sounds like what they’ve already been doing this whole time, honestly. Martin nods dreamily.
So, that’s just how things are, for a while. Jon curls against Martin’s side while Sasha fucks Martin sweet and slow, and says so many lovely, loving things to him, telling him how good he is, how nice he looks, how well he’s taking her. She takes her time with it, and as much as Martin enjoyed Jon’s adorable eagerness, he appreciates Sasha’s stamina just as much, because this is one luxurious fuck. Sasha is thorough.
By the time Sasha and Martin are tied together, Jon is starting to get hard again, a sleepy half-mast erection. To Martin’s fascination, Jon lets Tim touch him. He lets Tim stroke him to full hardness, and then to a slow, lazy orgasm, while Martin watches, entranced. He wonders what that’s about. He wonders if they’ve done it before. Maybe he’ll ask them, later. Not now. Martin’s thoughts are too slow, right now.
Tim wants Martin face down when it’s his turn. Martin lets himself be maneuvered. He buries his face in Jon’s pillow, inhales the scent while Tim fucks him hard, so hard Martin’s body is jostled slightly by the force of it. Tim has been patient, and now Martin gets to feel every ounce of his pent-up energy. He’s taking full advantage of how loose and relaxed Martin is. How easily Martin’s body accepts him. How slick and wet and downright egregiously full of come he is.
It’s good. All of it is good. Martin lets the sensations wash over him. Lets them carry him away. Tim flips Martin right back over as soon as he’s finished, getting on his hands and knees and licking his way into the mess between Martin’s legs, putting his mouth over Martin’s swollen, overstimulated dick. Martin isn't even sure if he's coming anymore, or if he's just basking in the fact that it feels nice, being treated so well, petted and praised and taken care of by his three favorite people in the world.
At some point, Martin drifts off.
-
Later, Martin wakes up in the dark, clean and dry and only slightly sticky between the legs. He's in a familiar-smelling bed, surrounded by three familiar-smelling people, breathing slowly. They’re packed in close. A warm mass of bodies with Martin at the center, pressing comfortingly in around him.
Martin rolls over, sighs deeply, and falls back asleep.