Okay okay, Maybe Jon being subjected to a multicourse banquet from Elias he cant get out of, important head of departments and shareholder things, and secretly messaging Martin details >///>
Bonus points if he's got to dress fancy and realizes everything has gotten rather tight a few courses in but still a ways to go and is going to pop a button.
I know I already mentioned it when you sent this in, but goddddddd I love this prompt - which is probably obvious by how long it got. You have a beautiful mind.
Have some JMart feedism games. Plus a bonus Elias who is enjoying himself way too much; sorry, he just snuck in there. Also Peter's there.
(Every time I write a prompt, it winds up at least a little goofy...so sorry for that, too.)
Upon receiving the invitation to the semiannual Institute banquet, Jon’s very first, reflexive response had been to turn it down.
“I’m afraid you can’t.” Elias didn’t even look up from the schedule he was annotating. With pen and paper, of course; Jon knew he preferred to do as much paperwork longhand as he possibly could. “Attendance is fully mandatory for all department heads barring something catastrophic, such as hospitalization or being wanted by the police, which is why you were excused the last two times…but if you, say, step in front of a bus or rob a jewelry store to try and weasel out of your commitment, I will know, and I will make you go anyway.”
“You really think I’d injure myself just to get out of a party?” Jon asked incredulously. “All you had to say was it was mandatory, Elias. If you want me there, I’ll be there.” Though not exactly with bells on.
“I’ve worked with you for the better part of a decade now, Jon.” Elias looked up. “It’s black tie. You’ll need to rent a tux.”
He didn’t even get a plus one, as he later vented to Martin, over Chinese takeaway in the shared flat they had so recently moved into together. Bringing Martin with him would at least, perhaps, have made it tolerable, but it seemed Elias - ever the overplanner, every detail micromanaged down to the atomic level - was inclined to throw him no bones at all.
“And I know Peter Lukas will be there, and Elias will of course have sat him at my table, and I’ll have to endure him all night long,” Jon muttered, lifting his container of lo mein so that Martin could lay his legs across his lap. “‘Ooh, how are the archives coming, Jon?...Oh, still working? Almost a year later?’ And that stupid smile of his - ”
“A banquet,” Martin said thoughtfully. “...how many courses? Exactly, I mean.”
“Including dessert?” Jon stabbed his chopsticks in. “Six.”
“Oh, that’s…that’s quite a bit, isn’t it?” Martin chuckled. “Do you think you could. Get away with - maybe, I mean, I-I don’t want you to get into any trouble - having your phone at the table?”
Jon looked up, noticing for the first time how Martin had begun to pink, high in his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses rested. The first tell-tale sign of his arousal. Then he looked down at himself, the very large portion of the takeaway that he had been allotted, and the small belly that, now he was at home, was on full display, lapping the waistband of his joggers.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I could.”
Martin’s proclivities had taken some time to come out after they’d gotten together, mostly because he was embarrassed by nearly everything about himself (or put on the appearance of being so, at least). Truth be told, Jon had been initially relieved; a non-sexual paraphilia that could so easily satisfy his partner was just what the doctor ordered, as far as he was concerned. But he had very quickly come to enjoy it himself, in many different ways. Eating for pleasure was something very new for him, as was having his body worshiped in the manner Martin did it…and he had to admit that it was quite nice not to be underweight anymore. To be a bit overweight, even.
And it brought a silver lining to a great number of situations that would not otherwise have had them. Such as the banquet. Their shared enjoyment started early, when Jon rented the tuxedo he’d need. He’d last worn one when he’d been with Georgie, attending a very formal wedding, and to his surprise, he had gone up not one, but several sizes. He tended to wear his clothing quite loose, so he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of doing much shopping for a new wardrobe, but watching the expression on Martin’s face as he drew the trousers up over his much-widened hips and ass, then buttoned the vest over the curves of his belly and chest, then tucked the shirt in around his love handles…well, Jon found himself quite looking forward to that inevitable and fast-approaching day.
“All right.” They shared a brief kiss before Jon departed. “I’ll text you after every course, tell you how I’m doing…I’ll try to get a picture here and there.”
“Just don’t get in trouble,” Martin warned. “And - remember. Six courses…and you have to eat it all. Even if you don’t like it.”
Jon chuckled. “Trust me. I remember.”
It wasn’t a game they had played before, but it was an exciting one. And he was glad of the distraction when he arrived - a rented space, nowhere in the Institute large enough to accommodate the department heads, the board, the donors, the academics, the MPs, or those few celebrities in the paranormal research field distinguished enough to warrant an invitation. He had indeed been seated with Peter Lukas.
Thankfully, he looked about as uncomfortable as Jon would have expected him to in a social situation, the pleasant blankness of dissociation settled firmly on his face, and there was not much small talk. Elias gave an opening speech on the stage, thanking everyone for their attendance and going over some of the driest figures that Jon had ever seen in his life with obvious relish, and then joined them at their table as the first course arrived.
“Wonderful to see you, Jon,” Elias greeted him, picking up his fork. “You look very nice.”
Jon was about to stiffly thank him when he looked down at his plate, and noticed something. The first course was, predictably, an hors d’oeuvre, small puffs of filled pastry with a dipping sauce on the side. But where Elias and Peter and everyone else at the large table had five on their plates, Jon had seven.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” he told Elias, who glanced over at his plate, then shrugged.
“A small one. Don’t trouble the waitstaff, Jon.” He took a sip of his wine. “They have enough to worry about tonight.”
Jon ate. He’d gotten better about appreciating food, thanks to Martin; he noted the flaky crackle of the pastry, the way the sauce and the filling complemented one another, as the other speeches began to commence. Investigators and academics lauding the Institute’s work and its impact on various fields of research, donors telling long-winded anecdotes, and of course various department heads justifying their expenditures and begging for more…
Jon supposed he ought to be grateful that Elias had told him he did not have to make a presentation or speech. His department did not require dedicated grants, and no one particularly wanted to hear how a bunch of glorified filing was going. Though maybe they should get their own grant…Jon couldn’t help uncharitably wondering just how much of the Institute’s funding had been funneled into tonight. The food was much, much better than the limp vegetables and overcooked meat that he’d been expecting.
And with every course, there was more of it for Jon than for everyone else.
First course done. Quite good. Appetite whetted. - JS
It was not entirely noticeable, nor the sort of thing he felt entirely comfortable bringing up again; Martin had softened the abrasive edges of his personality as well as his body. But he was absolutely certain that the soup in his bowl (heavy, cream-based, extraordinarily rich) was at least half an inch higher than Elias’s.
Second course. Already feeling a bit full…shouldn’t have had two glasses of wine. - JS
We’ll have to work more on your capacity, won’t we? - MB
The appetizer came and went, and Jon shifted a bit uncomfortably in his seat, pressing a hand briefly to his mouth to muffle a belch. While he’d been eating salmon croquettes (one extra for him), he’d tipped over into “full,” and then slid past it. He felt bloated, enough to be very aware of his belt.
He knew just enough about fine dining (thanks to a recent and quite disturbing series of back-to-back statements from chefs and other back-of-house workers) to be aware the salad course was next, and was quite relieved. Something light and crisp, to offer a bit of respite. But to his dismay, when it arrived, not only was it piled high with cheese, croutons, and slivers of bacon…but while everyone else’s had just a few slices of avocado, his had what looked like an entire half, fanned artfully out down towards the side.
He couldn’t do this, Jon realized. He was going to make himself sick. And with the main and dessert still on the way…yes, he’d need to pace himself. Martin would be disappointed, but, well. He’d understand. If he even found out.
“Oh, Jon.” Elias’s disappointed voice broke in over the droning of a man Jon suspected had been in office since before he was born. Elias nodded to where he’d placed his fork over his plate with roughly a quarter of the salad and the entire avocado left. “You’re not wasting it, are you?”
“Isn’t that a shame,” Peter broke brightly in from Jon’s right. “Do you have any idea how much it is a plate? And you got in for free.” He shook his head. “Not to mention being on your phone the whole time…”
Jon felt his face tighten and his jaw clench. Elias murmured, sotto voce, “It’s fine. You’re being discreet, and this is ever so tedious, isn’t it?” He nodded to Jon’s plate. “But you really ought to finish.”
Starting to struggle. - JS
You can do it. You’re my good little pig. - MB
Martin was bolder over text, apparently. Usually, it took almost the entire day to get him to that level of dirty talk. Jon wondered if he could undo his belt, squeezing him round his middle like a vise, then decided against it. If Peter had seen him on his phone, he’d definitely notice that.
The main course came. Jon regretted choosing the steak option as he plowed through a cut of meat nearly half again as large as everyone else’s.
Belly’s gurgling. So tight. Can’t stop myself belching. - JS
Picture? - MB
Maybe later. - JS
Jon’s breath came in short little pants. He could feel the buttons on his vest and the dress shirt beneath straining, the one that held the jacket together low enough that his belly had spilled out over it, cradled by it. He should, he realized, have gone up even another size when he rented this…or maybe even two. He was certain everyone could hear the creaking of his seams.
Dessert was simple: chocolate cake, ganache, served with an espresso martini. Jon ate his slightly-oversized slice with all the ginger caution of a bomb defusal technician, snipping one wire after another, one bite after another. He could feel himself growing, bloating ever forwards and outwards. Could feel the trembling strain of the stitches on the buttons holding him in, trying to contain the spread of his swollen middle. But so long as he was careful, surely -
Pop.
Jon froze, fork halfway to his mouth, as a bit of the pressure gave, and something went skittering away across the floor. He reached beneath the table, and was shocked not only at the size of himself - but at the fact that one of the buttons on his vest, the fabric much less forgiving than that of his shirt, had given up. Only loose thread.
I just popped a button off. - JS
You’re joking. - MB
“What was that?” Peter asked.
“Nothing, I’m sure.” Elias glanced at Jon. “Do finish, Jon. I know you have a sweet tooth.”
Jon did finish. And by the time he had, he was right back where he started, feeling his flesh press through the humming diamonds that it had stretched in his shirt and the vest on top. But at least, he thought with some relief, it was done. And a single button wouldn’t be so hard to hide when he -
“Don’t forget the pairing,” Elias prompted.
“Aren’t espresso martinis all the rage among your generation?” Peter asked pleasantly.
“I wouldn’t know,” Jon managed stiffly, and reached for the coupe. It was thick, sweet, took three quick swallows. He was acutely aware of his clothing quivering, pressing itchy red ruts into his skin as it stretched as far as it could go, on the first two swallows. The third was apparently the bridge that broke the camel’s back.
In a quick cascade of popping thread and pattering buttons, both vest and shirt came completely apart from the ribcage down, and Jon’s overfed belly spilled heavily into his lap.
I’m not getting the deposit back on this suit. - JS
Why? - MB
“I’m quite sure I heard something that time,” Peter said.
“I doubt it.” Elias nursed his martini.
Jon? - MB
Unlike Martin, Jon was not a blusher, something for which he was grateful to a dizzying extent - and not just because of the alcohol in his system. He sat stiffly at the table, chair pulled in as close as he could get it, and waited. Surely there’d be time to digest, for him to deflate enough to hide his shame with his jacket. But unfortunately for him, the only speech remaining seemed to be Elias’s final thank-you. And, of course, now the man was concise and quick.
Jon? Are you alright? - MB
People rose, began to mill around. Peter vanished as if into thin air, obligation fulfilled. Jon almost involuntarily tracked Elias around as he smiled and shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
Jon, I’m getting worried. - MB
I’m fine. I’ll be home late. - JS
People filtered out, one by one. The lights - dimmed through the presentations - came fully up, and the serving staff began to come out to clear the tables. A young man in whites asked Jon concernedly if everything was okay.
“Fine. Just…” He would not belch out loud, he wouldn’t - but he couldn’t stop the hiccup. “Need to sober up.”
“Is that what you need?” And of course there was Elias, standing at his shoulder with his hands folded behind him, glancing down at Jon with mild concern…and amusement.
“Yes,” Jon said through gritted teeth.
“Better to do it at home, then, wouldn’t you think?” Elias glanced around, then back down at Jon. “Come on, up you get. I’ve called a cab. Let’s get you home to Martin.” Apparently seeing his stubborn hesitation, he rolled his eyes. “Look, they’re all clearing out. The custodial staff will be in soon. Now’s your moment.”
Jon swallowed hard, shrugged out of his jacket, draped it over himself as best he could, pushed his chair out, and realized, much to his horror, that he could not get up. He’d gotten too heavy. His center of balance was completely off. An eventuality Elias must have been prepared for, because before Jon knew it, he was helping him to his feet. His hand stayed at the small of his back, steadying him, even as Jon waddled laboriously out of the ballroom.
“Well-fed, aren’t you?” Elias’s murmur was nearly a purr in his ear. “I’m glad. I was worried you wouldn’t get enough…your appetite has grown so much lately…”
And now Jon had begun to blush. He did his best to scowl through it. “You know,” Elias said almost casually as he helped Jon through the hallways, “perhaps we ought to think about having more banquets…”