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lovey-dovey, lovey-dovey, lovey-dovey all the time

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"Hhh, hm- fuck, Jon, if I had known this was all it took to make you stop being such a dickhead I would have taken my shirt off for you ages ago.”

Jon privately thinks this new status quo has less to do with any change on Jon's part, and more to do with Martin’s recent decision to stop being intimidated by Jon and start regarding any show of irritation on Jon's part as merely a prelude to furious snogging. Jon isn't complaining.

Possibly starting to develop a Pavlovian response to late reports, yes, but not complaining.

(Admittedly, he could do without the constant catcalls from Tim, or the knowing looks from Sasha, but, well, no job is perfect.)

Rather than try to articulate any of these thoughts, he opts to continue the process of sucking a matching set of bruises into either side of Martin’s neck. Symmetry is important. “You’re a menace. I should report you to HR.”

“They- they’ll have to invent a new sexual harassment seminar just for me. What to do when your coworker cures your shit personality with his tits.”

Jon pinches a nipple and relishes Martin’s yelp. "I resent the implication that I've been cured. It’s too early in the course of treatment to know for sure.”

Hhhow are you still talking.”

Jon hums agreeably and shuts up, allowing himself to dedicate all of his focus to his new favorite pastime: pinning Martin against the wall of old document storage, hands shoved up Martin's shirt and face tucked into Martin’s neck, diligently ensuring that Martin is going to be wearing nothing but turtlenecks to work for the foreseeable future. (Or, rather, Martin kindly humors the pretense of Jon pinning him against the wall, because Jon is half Martin’s weight on a good day and has the sort of build that's in constant danger of getting knocked over by a stiff breeze.)

Jon refuses to be daunted by Martin’s size. Jon is good at climbing things.

Riding the inspiration of the moment, Jon removes one of the hands occupied with fondling Martin's chest and relocates it to grope between Martin’s legs. There's not much to grab, of course, but Martin has enough fat down there to make a satisfying handful, and Martin seems to appreciate the gesture, sighing and pressing up against his hand. Jon squeezes the soft swell of Martin's crotch, pressing down hard and massaging with the heel of his hand, and Martin groans into Jon’s hair.

"Jon. You're gonna kill me."

"Mm. Can I suck you off?" The words fall out of Jon's mouth like a reflex, completely bypassing conscious thought. Jon feels like he's just learned something new about his body's autonomic responses. Dogs make him sneeze, high-pitched noises make him wince, and physical proximity to Martin, apparently, makes him offer oral sex.

Then his brain catches up and decides that yes, actually, it is completely on board with this idea, thank you for the suggestion, subconscious.

"Jesus christ. Yeah, okay? Not sure I'll survive the experience, but, sure."

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“At least I know my PTO will be approved if I have to call out.”

Unbidden, a memory surfaces of some bawdy online video Tim and Sasha were cackling at the other day - you’d better call in to work tomorrow, I’m about to suck the soul out of you! - and Jon has to press his lips tightly shut against a snort trying to escape.

Jon glances at his watch, confirming that it should be at least an hour before Tim and Sasha are due to come in, and then drops to the floor without further delay, already knowing his knees are going to regret it. He fumbles eagerly for the waistband of Martin’s boxers. It's like unwrapping a present, every inch of fabric removed revealing a new delight; the fuzzy overhang of his belly, the charmingly silver-striped thighs, the chubby mons and curly bush.

Seemingly sensing the direction of Jon’s thoughts, Martin’s knees turn inward slightly, and he says, faux-casually, "Heh, if I had known this was happening today I'd have given myself a trim."

Jon gives him a flat look. "Martin, if I'm not picking at least one of your hairs out from between my teeth by the end of this, it'll be a sign I'm doing something wrong."

It's atrocious, as far as dirty talk goes, but it succeeds in getting Martin to crack up, which means it served its purpose. Tender reassurance isn’t really in Jon’s wheelhouse, but keeping Martin too busy laughing at him to feel self-conscious is well within his capabilities. It is, in fact, easy enough that he often manages it completely unintentionally.

In case Martin has any lingering doubts about Jon's opinions on the subject of his genitalia, Jon takes a moment to nuzzle in close and savor, feeling the coarse tickle of hair against his cheek, breathing the musky-sharp smell of sweat and arousal. (Also, a little bit of a spicy-vanilla smell he recognizes from other parts of Martin. He forms a mental image of Martin putting a fussy little swipe of deodorant on his pubic hair each morning, and has to suppress a chuckle.)

Martin is hard and wet for him, the plump nub of his cock poking up eagerly, and the sight of it makes something in Jon’s stomach flutter with the pride of a job well done, that smug little oh-I-did-that he always gets when he gets Martin to moan or laugh or smile.

It really is a delicious-looking morsel of a cock. For some reason, the word "fun-sized" comes to mind. Possibly because of Jon's persistent fantasies of sucking on it like a piece of candy.

Jon strokes his hands across Martin’s thighs, gathers himself like a sprinter at the starting line, and dives in.

He kneads his thumbs into the yielding softness of Martin’s mound, pressing outward to spread him wider, exposing a patch of shiny-pink heaven that begs to be explored with both gratitude and enthusiasm. Jon is amply prepared to provide both in spades. He licks meandering trails from bottom to top, mingling spit and salty-bitter wetness on his tongue, spreading it like paint on a canvas. He acquaints himself with Martin’s labia - ideal examples of the type, lovely to suck, just outstanding. He dips down to tease Martin’s hole, pressing close to flick his tongue inside, which earns him an encouraging flex of Martin’s hips.

When he finally seals his mouth over Martin’s cock, Martin swears comprehensively and shoves his hands into Jon’s hair, which, yes, good idea, excellent initiative, well done Martin.

Martin is, unsurprisingly, a joy and a privilege to blow. Jon really couldn’t ask for a more appreciative audience. Martin is putting a reasonable effort into keeping himself quiet - a level of caution that Jon appreciates, given their somewhat precarious location - but his pattern of breathing is wonderfully expressive, providing a continuous stream of feedback in the form of muffled gasps and hitches and sighs.

His cock is a satisfying size in Jon’s mouth, a warm little bundle of textures with just enough length to give his tongue room to work. A short ridge of a shaft to stroke, a velvety hood that shifts slightly under his tongue, a delicate head that makes Martin’s legs jump and jitter flatteringly when Jon tickles it. Jon can’t resist repeating the last motion a few times just to see if he can make that oversensitive little jolt happen again, and Martin obliges him readily. If Jon's lips weren't so thoroughly occupied, he's pretty sure he would be smiling.

Jon tries to say something, realizes it was most likely incomprehensible, withdraws with a wet sound and tries again.

"D’you want fingers?" he asks, distantly aware of how ridiculous he sounds, hoarse and breathless. Being reduced to grunting monosyllables like a cave person while buried face-down in some portion of Martin’s anatomy is more or less par for the course for him, these days.

Martin whimpers a vague affirmative, and two fingers slide in effortlessly, tucking up into luscious heat. It feels like Martin could easily take much more - how much more? - and Jon files that spark of curiosity away for another time. He sucks Martin’s cock back into his mouth at the same time that he curls his fingers inward, stroking in tandem with the bobbing of his head, and Martin’s hands tighten in Jon’s hair. Jon hums with pleasure.

When Martin’s orgasm hits - and hits quickly, to Jon's unending smugness - Jon feels like he experiences it with every sense. The rippling squeeze around his fingers, the rhythmic twitching of Martin's cock against his tongue, the tense trembling of Martin's thighs in front of his face. The way Martin's breath stops for a moment, then blows out in a shivering sigh of relief, a release of tension that spreads outward through his entire body.

Jon could just about burst with pride. And possibly pop a seam on his trousers. But mostly the first thing.

Though, actually, now that he's noticed it, he's, ah. He does feel a bit. Hm.

The thing is: it's not that Jon is particularly selfless, or unaffected, or even averse to his own arousal in a general sense. He just doesn't really...think about his body when he gets like this. It's a distraction, when all he wants to do is focus every ounce of his attention on exploring the fascinating sensory feast laid out in front of him.

Consequently, he's not really aware of the way his cock is straining at the front of his trousers, until he's suddenly very aware of it, and oh, oh, ohh, okay, that just happened, didn't it.

Jon has to take a minute just to breathe as he shivers through the aftershocks, leaning his forehead against the generous pillow of Martin's thigh. He's really not looking forward to going sans underpants for the remainder of his workday. If they plan on making this a regular thing he's going to have to start packing spares. Or start inviting Martin back to his flat. Or invite Martin to stay in his flat-

Martin cracks his eyes open and looks down at him. "You want any help?"

“Ah. No, I’m, I’m good, actually.” says Jon, as evenly as he can manage, still reeling at the discovery that he is apparently capable of experiencing an entirely sympathetic orgasm.

“Good as in..?”

"Problem took care of itself, as it happens.” Jon brings a hand up to wipe his face. It doesn’t exactly help, seeing as his hands are only marginally dryer than his face, which is more or less soaked from nose to chin. He feels accomplished. And...sticky.

Martin blinks uncomprehendingly at him for a second. Then his eyes widen and he claps a hand over his mouth, stifling laughter. “Wow, Jon, seriously-?”

“Shut up and take the compliment.”

Jon grunts as he shifts off of his aching knees, shuffling to sit with his back against the wall while he catches his breath. Martin hikes up his boxers and slowly slides down to sit next to him. He looks flushed and dazed and a little disbelieving. Jon derives immense satisfaction from the sight.

"You know, back when you were chewing my arse out every day for no good reason, somehow it never occurred to me that you'd be a champion at giving head. Or be the kind of guy who comes just from giving head. Just goes to show you."

Goes to show what, Jon can't imagine. He decides to accept the good review in the spirit it was intended. After a moment of companionable silence, he says, "You know, I used to think you were a pain in the arse whose primary purpose in life was to bring down the efficiency of my work."


"To be fair, I still think that, just in a more approving manner."

Jon yelps when Martin's bra hits him in the face.