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i know, i know that good things will come

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"I've got a king-sized bed at my flat." says Tim, with a smile that looks almost friendly, and a subvocal rumble that says you wanna fight about it?

"Ugh. I've slept on that mattress. It's way too soft. You'll give Martin a backache." replies Sasha, equally casually, while she sub-audibly tells Tim to bring it on, fuckboy.

(Martin doesn't point out that he's likely to end up with a backache regardless of the quality of Tim's mattress, because Tim has elevated fucking to the status of a competitive sport, and seems to think he's training Martin for the Olympics. Martin doesn't particularly mind.)

"You're both being ridiculous." says Jon, whose chest is buzzing in a way that roughly translates to I can take you, I'll take you both on, just see if I won't. "And my flat is closest to the institute, so, for safety purposes-"

"You can't take Martin back to that shoebox!" Tim interjects, in an exaggeratedly scandalized tone of voice, while Sasha makes noises of fervent agreement.

"It's cozy." Jon continues staunchly. "And the view is nice."

Martin does appreciate a good view.

There's a stalemate sort of silence. Then Sasha announces, with a flourish, "My flat is right across the street from a Starbucks. The manager owes me a favor. Free drinks whenever I want them."

Martin sighs dreamily at the thought. He really could go for a chai latte right now. Even if he does feel like he loses a bit of hipster cred every time he goes to a Starbucks instead of, like, hunting down some obscure hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, or something. (Look, they're popular for a reason, okay?)

There's another broody, grumbly silence, while the three naked people in Martin’s nest of pillows and blankets appear to be internally weighing the merits of starting a three way brawl in the middle of document storage. Martin, sensing that there's some tension in need of defusing, stretches himself out and yawns, with the slightest hint of a plaintive noise in the back of his throat. Then he squirms and coos happily when three sets of hands reach out and start petting various parts of him.

(Specifically, Sasha ruffles his hair, Tim caresses his belly, and Jon, as per usual, goes straight for the boobs. Jon may arguably be the least sexually-charged of the three, but the man knows what he likes.)

(And meanwhile, throughout all of this, the part of Martin’s brain responsible for interpreting subvocals is melting into a puddle of bliss, basking in a three part harmony of hello lover, hello lovely one, what do you need, are you safe, are you happy?)

Martin still isn't really sure how he ended up in this situation, honestly. He's almost afraid to question it, lest he break the spell and bring this incredible stroke of good fortune crashing down around him. It seems like the sort of thing dreams are made of. Daydreams and wet dreams.

Like, when Jon, Tim, and Sasha had offered to help him through his first heat, in a generous, platonic, coworkerly sort of way, Martin had been so, so sure that it was going to be a one time thing. Hell, he'd been braced for that. He'd been determined that he wasn't going to be needy or clingy or anything that would make these three very cool people regret sleeping with him. He was going to be chill about it. He was.

But, here's the thing. Martin is good at repressing his emotional needs. Hell, he's the reigning champion of that sort of thing. But he may have slightly underestimated the difficulty of doing his usual everything-is-fine-no-really shtick while his pheromones were broadcasting every single one of his emotions on a loudspeaker, because when their post-coital drowsiness had started to wear off, and Tim had gone to get up, Martin had felt a pathetic little pang in his heart. And then Tim had given him a devastated look, and said, "Aw, Martin, no," and had turned right back around and put himself back in the pile.

(Of course, they had all eventually needed to get up to use the restroom, and to get food, but the others had agreed to go one at a time, leaving the remaining two to hold down the fort with Martin. All while gently teasing Martin for whining like a baby every time one of them pulled away.)

(Which he wasn't, okay? He was being very stiff-upper-lip about it. It wasn't his fault his stupid pheromones were pheromone-ing. And that his caveman-brain hormones were very convincingly telling him that he absolutely needed to be cuddled by as many people as possible, at all times, yes, every single second, or else he might literally die of sadness.)

(Death by heat heartbreak is not a real thing. Even Martin knows that's just an urban legend. If the others had left, he would have just...had a bit of a cry, and gotten over it, and been fine. But he didn't have to. Because they stayed with him. They didn't leave him alone. Which also made him cry, but, like, in a good way.)

Anyway. That's how what had started out as an admittedly fantastic pity fuck turned into a pity sleepover. And then a series of sleepovers. And then, when having four people simultaneously camping out in their somewhat cramped workspace became unfeasible, instead of doing the sane thing and putting a stop to it, they had started doing...this.

"This" being "alternating between coddling Martin and not-so-subtly posturing at each other when they circle back around to the subject of where Martin is going to be sleeping tonight."

"Alright, tiebreaker time, Marto." says Tim, snapping Martin back out of la-la land. "Who's it gonna be?"

Martin shrugs awkwardly and makes some conflicted, noncommittal sounds. He's not deliberately trying to be coquettish about it, he really isn't, he swears. He really is having trouble deciding. But something about the way all three sets of eyes just snapped to him, pupils dilating, is definitely making him feel...tingly. In places.

"Hmm. Is there anything I could do to persuade you?" says Sasha, while running a hand slowly up his inner thigh, and ah, ah, yes, more tingles, tingles are very much happening! And, yeah, Martin’s scent glands may not be shouting his emotional state from the rooftops quite as obnoxiously as they were before, now that his body has finally calmed down from its estrus-induced hysteria, but there's really no hiding the fact that having three prime specimens fighting over him for the past half hour has been getting him wet. Like...really wet, okay, wow. Jesus Christ, it's like somebody left a faucet running down there.

(Martin hopes the leaky plumbing is something else that's going to ease off a bit, as time goes on, because right now it's kind of...a lot. It's just. It's very. Yeah.)

(Martin is very reluctantly starting to consider the idea of pads. If only to stop the others from eyeing the pants in his dirty laundry basket like they're a cross between the Holy Grail and the forbidden fruit of Eden. They are not as subtle as they think they are.)

"Trying to bribe the judge, Sasha?" Jon says archly, getting a supercilious look in return. Not to be outdone, Jon nuzzles in close to Martin’s face, breathing warmly over his ear, and makes one of those low, delicious, affectionate subvocal hums. The ones that shiver Martin’s entire body from top to bottom, like a character in a Ghibli movie, and make his toes curl and his eyelids flutter. Tim and Sasha, neither of whom have Jon’s level of natural talent in this department, roundly swear at him for cheating.

(Martin also has to stifle a laugh, because what he's hearing is an insistent, beckoning hello there, come here, over here, come here to me, won't you please come here? even though it’s literally not possible for Martin to get any closer. To think Martin was the one worried about being too clingy.)

And then Sasha strokes her way even further up Martin’s thigh, until she's no longer in thigh territory at all, and Tim shifts himself up onto his hands and knees, gathering himself like he's getting ready to pounce, and the conversation devolves rapidly from there.

(They end up going with Tim's king-sized bed. It's the only place big enough for all four of them.)