The night Martin’s god claimed him started as a normal evening. It was a Friday night, and he was ready to unwind after a long day attempting to wrangle order out of the chaos of the Institute. Elias’s managerial system had been antiquated at best, and Martin suspected he’d spent more time scheming and spying on them than worrying about the day-to-day running of the Institute. Peter was no help at all, giving him different answers each time Martin a question. Sometimes he thought Peter simply enjoyed frustrating him, though Martin did his best never to let it show.
He’d just finished dinner and was settled on the couch, armed with his favorite blanket and a plate of raspberry kołaczki from the bakery down the street, when his mobile rang. He looked down at the display and swore quietly.
Peter Lukas, as if Martin had summoned him by thought. A few months ago, Peter had snapped a selfie of himself with Martin’s phone and insisted on using it as his contact photo. The Peter on his phone gave him a rakish wink. Martin considered letting it go to voicemail, but the only thing worse than answering a call from his boss on a Friday night was dodging a call from his boss when he had nothing better to do. Besides, it might actually be important, for once.
“Evening, Martin,” Peter said cheerfully. “Not interrupting anything, I hope?”
Martin scowled. Peter knew perfectly well that he was interrupting nothing, but he had to point it out anyway.
“I’m afraid I have some urgent business to discuss, if you don’t mind my stealing you away on a weekend,” Peter said, chuckling as if he’d made a very amusing joke. His tone was so perfectly friendly, so reasonable , it set Martin’s teeth on edge.
“Thank you for understanding, Martin. The car will be there in fifteen.”
Martin was met with the click of the receiver. Of course Peter had a landline. He probably used one of those antique phones with the bell you spoke into. He probably even had a servant to dial for him.
Looking down, he realized he’d spilled jam on his jumper. With a muttered curse, he retreated into the bedroom to change.
He briefly considered considered dressing up for the occasion, but he wasn’t about to try to impress the arsehole who meant to steal him away from his home on a Friday night when he could have theoretically been out with friends, or on a date, or having sex, even. Peter would get him in jeans and a faded Night Vale t-shirt, or he wouldn’t get him at all. He topped off the ensemble with a pair of worn pink trainers. His only concession to vanity was the futile attempt to wrangle his hair into some sort of order.
The car arrived exactly fourteen minutes after Peter’s call. Martin didn’t know much about cars, but this one was black and obviously expensive, with exotic curves and soft leather seats. He’d never seen one like it. The driver ushered him into the back without making eye contact, as quiet and unobtrusive as the door handles or the console. He wondered if this was how rich people lived, alone in a world of servants and drivers they never spoke to. Peter must love it, he thought.
Once they arrived at a trendy apartment building, Martin was unsurprised to be led straight to the penthouse. He tried to thank the driver, but the man disappeared before he could get the words out.
“Martin!” Peter greeted, full of false warmth. He slung an arm around Martin’s shoulder, leading him inside. “I hope this isn’t too much bother, having you over on such short notice. Can I get you anything?”
“I’d rather get this over with, thanks.”
“Don’t be like that,” Peter said, pouting. “I’ve got a nice Spanish red with your name on it. You’ll like it, I promise.”
“But I don’t—”
Peter was busy leading him into the sitting room, where a bottle of wine was already open, alongside a decanter of whiskey. Peter still hadn’t taken his arm from around Martin’s shoulders, a warm and solid weight against Martin’s skin. His presence still sparked that feeling of wrongness that had so frightened Martin when they first met, though now it was more like static in the background than an overwhelming screech.
“Please, sit,” Peter ordered, and Martin found himself on a couch so plush it threatened to swallow him, cradling a glass of wine between his hands. Peter looked so expectant that Martin couldn’t bring himself to tell him he hated wine, and he braced himself as he took the first sip.
To his surprise, the wine was rich and sweet on his tongue. It tasted like he always thought wine would taste like from reading books, before he’d tried it and been disappointed. It burned on the way down, leaving an oddly pleasant warmth in his chest.
“Like it?” Peter asked, sitting down next to him. “I picked it out just for you.”
He sat just a bit closer than was strictly proper. Martin felt his pulse flutter, unable to ignore the narrow gap between their thighs. He suddenly had no idea what to do with his hands.
“You, er...wanted to speak to me about something?” he asked, in hopes of distraction.
“Actually, I did.”
Martin jerked around to see Elias Bouchard standing in the doorway. He was impeccably dressed in a dove grey suit, with his hair in a neat plait over his shoulder. More significant, however, was the lack of handcuffs.
“What is he doing here?” Martin demanded, turning back to Peter.
“You mean to say you didn’t miss me, Martin?” Elias strode into the room, pouring himself a glass of wine and pulling up a chair, so close his knees nearly grazed Martin’s. “I’m quite hurt.”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Peter assured Elias. Turning to Martin, he said, “There are advantages to being richer than Croesus. Grease the right palms, and no one’s too bothered what happens to one little prisoner, so long as he’s back before morning.”
Martin wanted to shout at him, or perhaps phone the police; that wasn’t how things were supposed to work. When you orchestrated the arrest and imprisonment of your boss, he was supposed to stay imprisoned, not pop up in your new boss’s flat looking like a men’s fashion spread. Frustrated, he took his glass in both hands and drained it in one long swallow, coughing just a bit at the end.
Peter laughed, patting him on the back. “Easy there, lad. We’ve got all night.”
Setting down the glass, Martin glared at Elias. “What did you want so badly you made Peter kidnap me, then?”
“You’ve hardly been kidnapped,” Elias said. “In fact, you’re free to leave at any moment. I would never force you into the position I’m about to propose. Your consent is not only required, but...appreciated.”
Elias’s voice was heavy with meaning, though what sort of meaning, Martin couldn’t guess.
“I’ll explain,” Elias continued. “You’ve been working for the Institute for a long time, haven’t you? Living under the Eye’s protection, while our god asks precious little of you. ”
“I...suppose,” Martin said, unsure of where this was going.
“Beholding has given you many things: a role to fill, a purpose to live for—even an object for your worship, as aloof as he may be.”
Martin looked away, forcing down the reflexive denial. None of them would believe it anyway.
“You’ve fed our god dutifully, providing it with the research and the statements that are our lifeblood. However, if you want to go further—if you truly want to help the Archivist—our god needs more from you, Martin.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “I need more from you.”
Martin felt himself trapped by Elias’s stare, like an insect pinned to a table. Martin couldn’t bring himself to look away, even as he asked quietly, “What...what do you need?”
“Our god wants to know you, Martin,” Elias said. “Through me, and through Peter.”
“I don’t understand,” Martin argued. “You already know who I am.”
“He means in the biblical sense, love,” Peter said helpfully.
Martin clapped a hand over his mouth, feeling his face grow hot. He waited for one of them to laugh and tell him the real reason they’d brought him there, but they just watched him calmly.
“I don’t—I don’t understand,” he babbled. “I don’t— you don’t—how can you?”
Peter tipped Martin’s chin up in his hand, rubbing a thumb across his cheek. Martin felt his flush deepen.
“You don’t know how delectable you are,” Peter murmured. “I could eat you alive.”
Martin’s pulse raced as Peter brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. He wondered for a moment if Peter was going to kiss him, but instead he released him, turning to face Elias.
“I—I don’t—” he stammered, shaking his head.
“Our god wants to know you, Martin,” Elias repeated, taking Martin’s hand in his. He stroked the palm with his thumb, sending a shiver up his spine “Will you deny him?”
Martin bit his lip. “I—it can’t just be about the Eye, can it? I mean, Peter’s here.”
Peter chuckled deep in his throat. “My interest in this is entirely carnal.”
“Your interest in Peter is obvious,” Elias drawled. “And his...participation...will make a finer show.”
Martin stared down at his hand in Elias’s. He knew there was no keeping secrets at the Institute, but he’d at least tried to be...subtle about his crush on Peter. Mostly he tried to avoid looking at him at all, but Peter was always right there in Martin’s space, with his broad shoulders and silver hair, his strong hands and his heartless gaze. Giving himself to Peter would be like throwing himself into a bottomless chasm, and part of him wanted to.
As for Elias...that silky, condescending voice had haunted him for years, the clever lines of his hands and mouth, the streaks of grey in his glossy black hair. Martin had always had a thing for older men, he couldn’t help it, and the cocksure twist of his lips had always spoken of experience, of knowing , in ways that made Martin’s mouth go dry.
“You want to help Jon, don’t you, Martin?” Elias asked, knowing Martin’s answer. “This is the way to help him. Our god has more gifts to grant you, if you will take them.”
“B-but why does the Eye need to know me, like—like that?”
Elias reached up to stroke Martin’s cheek, making him shudder.
“There’s power in sex, dear boy. Power that reveals us, that exposes parts of us we leave concealed in the light of day. Our god doesn’t need it, but he understands we are only human, and the flesh is a shortcut to understanding his glory.”
Peter wrapped his arms around Martin from behind, his chest a solid wall of muscle. Martin didn’t know whether he was meant to feel comforted or trapped. Perhaps it was a bit of both, though he knew if he denied them, no one would stop him leaving Peter’s flat.
“Jon wouldn’t want me to do this,” he said helplessly.
Peter nuzzled Martin’s neck, making him squirm in his grasp.
“Jon is still learning the ways of our god,” Elias said with a fond smile. “He does not understand your part in this, and he’d rather see you wrapped in silk cloth, tucked away in a drawer somewhere. He seeks to protect you, when you could be the most dangerous of us all.”
Elias pulled back, sitting up straight. “You’re not obligated to accept our god’s gifts, however. We can still keep you locked away in the office as Jon desires, safe from harm. There’s really no need for you to serve him directly.”
It was a transparent ploy, and they all knew it.
That didn’t stop it working.
After a long pause, Martin said, “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Elias smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You can start with taking off your clothes.”
Martin paused for a long time before standing and pulling off his t-shirt, tossing it in a random direction. He spared a moment for self-consciousness, but it wasn’t as if this had been his idea. Elias’s face gave away nothing.
Next came his jeans. A hand on his waist stopped him before he could get to the boxers.
“Rather cute, these,” Peter said, running an appreciative hand down his arse.
Martin flushed. He hadn’t expected anyone to see his pants today, and the little cartoon badgers had been too adorable to pass up. He bit his lip as Peter hooked his fingers under the waistband, fighting the urge to cover himself as Peter slid them down past his hips. He could feel the weight of their stares on his skin.
“There’s a lad,” Peter said, patting him fondly. “Now, hands behind your back.”
Martin looked down to see Peter holding a length of rope between his hands, though where he’d gotten it from, Martin didn’t have a clue. He wouldn’t put it past Peter to keep bondage equipment in his sitting room. He did as he was told, gasping at the rough texture of the rope against his wrists.
“What’s all this for?” Martin asked as Peter tied the knots.
“It’s rather hard to conceal yourself when you can’t move,” Elias said.
“Right,” Martin said. The exposure wasn’t just metaphorical, then.
Peter then looped a second rope around his chest and shoulders, and finally his neck. When he was done, he kissed the knot at the base of Martin’s throat, making him shiver.
“I also happen to know you enjoy feeling helpless, tied and left to someone else’s mercy,” Elias continued. “Don’t you, Martin?”
Martin looked away, face burning. He couldn’t deny it.
“It’s a good look on you,” Peter said.
Peter sat down on the sofa, pulling Martin to perch precariously in his lap, off-balance from the restraints. The fabric of Peter’s trousers was rough against Martin’s skin, as were his hands, callused from years of labor at sea. He ran those callused hands over Martin’s skin, stroking his arms and chest. When his thumb caught against the edge of his nipple, Martin gasped.
“So sensitive,” Peter murmured, repeating the motion.
“Is he?” Elias asked, leaning over Martin’s shoulder. He caught Martin’s other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching it until Martin squirmed and bit his lip. Peter pinched him, too, and soon his nipples were sore and swollen, and he felt his cock hardening between his legs. There was no way they wouldn’t notice, he realized, but instead of shame he felt a small and secret thrill.
“Lovely boy,” Peter said, and tilted Martin’s face up for a kiss.
Peter’s lips against his were confident, possessive, claiming his mouth as if he had all the right in the world. His tongue licked into Martin’s mouth, sending a thrill down his spine as he explored. Martin moaned into the kiss.
“Such a little slut,” Elias murmured, biting into Martin’s shoulder and making him gasp.
“Our little slut,” Peter confirmed. “You’ll be good for us, won’t you?”
Martin nodded, and Peter rewarded him with another kiss, this time with a hint of teeth. Elias’s hands roamed his body, finding all the spots that made him gasp into Peter’s mouth and struggle against his bonds. He had the dizzying feeling that he might fall at any moment.
“Let’s get him to bed,” Elias murmured, sucking a bruise onto the side of Martin’s neck. Martin shivered.
Martin expected them to help him to his feet, but instead Peter simply slung him over one broad shoulder, arse in the air and cock rubbing against his chest. He briefly considered expiring from sheer embarrassment, but it was a short trip.
The bedroom was as opulent as the rest of the flat, dominated by an enormous four poster bed with blood red sheets. Ropes and pulleys hung from the ceiling above them, their purpose eminently clear. Once Peter deposited him on the bed, he untied Martin’s hands, only to bind them again over his head. More ropes bound his ankles and pried his knees apart.
“Do this often, do you?” Martin asked. Peter grinned, not bothering to answer.
“Spread his legs wider,” Elias ordered.
“Aye-aye,” Peter said. He bound Martin on his back, arms pinned overhead, with his knees up and his legs spread as wide as they could go. Martin squirmed, but there was no room to move, no way to hide himself, spread open for their amusement.
“All in all, you’re not unpleasant to look at,” Elias said, running a hand up Martin’s thigh. “I’m sure plenty of men would love to be in Jon’s position.”
“Shut up,” Martin snapped. The thought of Jon made his skin itch, the way it did when someone was watching him from far away. The rest of his complaint was cut off as Elias wrapped his long fingers around his cock.
“He doesn’t have a single clue what to do with attraction, you realize.” Elias said, squeezing and coaxing him into full hardness. “For all the Eye has revealed to him, he hasn’t figured out what do with other people’s feelings.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Martin said. “I don’t—I don’t need—”
“But you want it,” Elias said, rubbing the spot just below the crown that made his toes curl.
“Will you ever shut up?” Martin demanded.
Elias chuckled and leaned down to kiss him. His hand twined in Martin’s hair, tugging slightly as he explored Martin’s mouth, slow and leisurely, then deeper. Martin was breathing hard when he pulled away.
“You’ve been mine all along, you realize,” Elias said, brushing Martin’s hair behind his ear. “This is just the first time I’ve chosen to show you.”
The words sparked something in Martin’s chest, a warmth he tried and failed to suppress: a desire, a need to be wanted, to be marked as someone’s own. He opened his mouth to speak when he felt a hand on his inner thigh.
“Ever had your arse eaten?” Peter asked. Martin shook his head, and he grinned. “You’re in for a treat.”
Peter began by kissing his thighs, stopping now and then to bite and leave sucking bruises. Martin squirmed in the restraints as he trailed upwards, finally spreading his buttocks. Peter paused to blow a cool breath over his hole, making him whimper.
“Ask nicely,” Peter ordered.
Martin clenched his fists, biting down on his lip so hard it nearly bled, before he managed to say, “Please!”
“Good boy,” Peter said, licking a teasing circle around his arsehole. Martin groaned, torn between closing his legs and spreading them further, but he was bound too tightly for either.
Elias stroked Martin’s chest, trailing a single finger to his mouth before tapping on his lips. Martin parted them eagerly, sucking the digit into his mouth. Peter gently kissed his hole before licking a line clear to his balls, and he groaned. Elias rewarded him with a second finger in his mouth.
When he looked up, Elias was watching his face raptly. He thought about looking away, but then Peter began licking his hole directly, teasing little swipes of his tongue, and his eyes squeezed shut. He could still feel Elias’s gaze on his skin. He sucked at Elias’s fingers, doing his best to convey his need.
“You little whore,” Elias murmured. “You’d spread your legs for anyone who asked.”
Martin didn’t know if he was saying it because it was true or simply because it made him moan and shove his arse against Peter’s face as best he could against the ropes, but he didn’t care. Elias could call him whatever he wanted if Peter kept licking him. Peter’s tongue finally breached his arse, opening him, and he slid a finger in beside it, making him groan..
Elias pulled his fingers from Martin’s mouth and wrapped them around his cock, stroking it slowly.
“You want more of Peter inside you, don’t you?” he asked. “You’d take his entire fist if you could.”
Martin nodded shakily, and Peter slid another finger in beside the first, stretching him open.
“God, please…” he whined, caught between the hand on his cock and the fingers in his arse.
“You singularly filthy thing,” Elias whispered. “You’ll take everything we give you, won’t you? Everything we give you, and more.”
Martin whined high in his throat, squirming. He did want more, all he could get, enough to fill him until he couldn’t think anymore. Peter nipped at his thighs, alternating between harsh bites and sucking kisses, slipping yet another finger into him. Martin wasn’t sure how many were in him; it felt like all of them, but he knew it couldn’t be. He could feel his arse stretched tight around Peter’s fingers, a sweet jolt of pain, and he wondered if Peter’s cock was as thick as he’d imagined. It was then that he realized he was the only one unclothed; Elias and Peter were both fully dressed, making him feel all the more naked.
“Not fair,” he whined, squirming.
“What isn’t fair, love?” Peter crooked his fingers just so, making Martin see stars.
It was several seconds before Martin managed to say, “...want to see you…”
Elias released Martin’s cock and slapped his arse so hard he yelped.
“We’ll decide what you see, and when,” Elias said coolly. “Unless you’d like to be blindfolded.”
Martin shook his head frantically. He wasn’t sure he could handle being even further at their mercy. At least with his eyes open, he could…could…
Do absolutely nothing, he thought. He’d already made his decision.
Elias slapped his arse again, harder this time, and Martin bit his lip.
“You should see yourself,” he said, running a cool hand over the stinging flesh. “Spread open for us like a meal, cock dripping, arse stretched around Peter’s fingers. Do you think Jon would be proud?”
Martin started to speak, but Elias slapped his arse again, then again, harder each time. Peter withdrew his fingers, leaving him empty, and Elias slapped him across both cheeks, then rubbed his fingers over Martin’s gaping hole. Martin groaned, head falling back against the pillows.
Elias kneaded Martin’s buttocks, running his manicured nails up Martin’s inner thighs and leaving gooseflesh in his wake. His cock was throbbing, and his arse was painfully empty.
“Please,” he panted, nails digging so tightly into his palms he thought they might bleed.
“Please what?” Elias asked calmly.
Martin tried to speak again, but Peter reached up to tweak one of his nipples, still sore from earlier, and he gasped and bit down on his lip again.
“Please, let me—” He broke off when Peter pinched the other one, then leaned down to kiss it in mock apology.
“I’m afraid we can’t hear you,” Peter said.
Elias resumed slapping his arse, pausing now and then to tease his hole, as Peter tormented him from above. He could barely catch his breath, caught between them, especially not when Peter claimed his mouth in another bruising kiss.
Martin lost track of things, not sure whether he was moaning, whimpering, or begging for more. Finally he managed to get the words out (letmecomeletmecomeletme) , and they both descended on him at once, Elias plunging his fingers into Martin’s arse at the same time that Peter leaned down to swallow his cock.
It was over embarrassingly fast after that, Martin coming so hard he nearly blacked out, shooting into Peter’s waiting mouth and clamping down tight around Elias’s fingers with a desperate whine.
Peter’s mouth pried at his, and he tasted his own bitterness as Peter fed his own come to him. He swallowed obediently, dazed and only half-aware of himself. Peter chuckled against his mouth.
“Good lad,” he murmured, sparking warmth in Martin’s chest. Peter pressed kisses to his face, his neck, everywhere he could reach. “I’m going to relax the restraints for now, yeah?”
Martin nodded muzzily, feeling the ropes relax enough for him to lower his legs and stretch his arms. His arse and thighs were slick with lube.
“Always knew you were a dirty little thing,” Peter said. “I can’t wait to fuck you properly.”
The words went straight to Martin’s cock, though it was too soon for him to harden again.
Elias crawled into Peter’s lap, pulling him down by the hair for a long kiss. Martin imagined Elias tasting his come on Peter’s lips, feeling a flash of embarrassment mixed with something altogether different. You’ve been mine all along, you realize. Martin was Elias’s to taste if he wanted to, and taste he would.
Peter and Elias kissed like longtime lovers, practiced and comfortable but still heated. Their hands roamed each other’s bodies confidently, their frames fitting together like puzzle pieces. Together, they stripped each other of their clothes, one layer at a time. Peter made a point of throwing each of Elias’s garments in a different direction, which Elias responded to by biting down on his throat, making Peter growl.
Their bodies were a study in contrasts. Elias was long and lean, with just a dusting of hair across his chest and at the base of his half-hard cock. His creamy skin was almost entirely unblemished. Peter’s chest and arms were dense with muscle, his thick frame ornamented with scars and tattoos: a compass rose, an anchor, an amply-bosomed girl. He was also covered in wiry silver hair, and the sight of it made Martin’s mouth water, as did the heavy cock between his legs, with its dusky head peeking out of the foreskin. He found himself licking his lips.
Peter chuckled. “See something you want?”
“I—I’d like to—” Martin felt himself flush uselessly. As if he had any dignity to spare after begging them both to let him come.
You’d like to what? Elias would have demanded, but Peter simply laughed and pulled Martin by the hair, guiding him towards his cock.
Martin found himself inhaling deeply, savoring the rich scent of Peter’s sex before giving him a small lick. He’d have liked to use his hands, but they were still bound, if more loosely than before.
Peter urged him to open his mouth, feeding Martin his cock bit by bit. Martin suckled gently, stroking the underside with his tongue as Peter hardened in his mouth.
“Good boy,” Peter said, making that feeling flicker in Martin’s chest again. He didn’t want it to feel so good, but it did. “Can you take more?”
Martin hummed his assent around Peter’s cock, and Peter fed him more, until the head bumped against Martin’s throat. Martin swallowed carefully.
“We should keep him,” Peter said to Elias, burying his hands in Martin’s hair. “Tied to the bed, ready to use any time we want. He’d be perfect for that.” Martin moaned and sucked harder.
“It suits him,” Elias agreed. “I do, however, think our Archivist would object.”
Martin tried not to think of Jon, but it was impossible to avoid it: the idea of Jon watching him, his eyes measuring him, taking him in, seeing him in all his sluttishness. Jon’s Eye fixed on him from across the city, following him wherever he went, seeing through to the filthy heart of him.
He found himself wondering if Jon would taste the same in his mouth, would use him quite so thoroughly, but the idea was as shameful as it was exciting. Jon didn’t belong here, in this room that smelled of sweat and sex and humiliation. Jon deserved better.
Peter distracted him from his thoughts with a particularly deep thrust, and Martin choked, trying to force down his gag reflex. Peter chuckled, rubbing a thumb along Martin’s lips where they were stretched around his cock.
“As much as I love your filthy little mouth,” he said, “I did promise you a good fucking.”
Martin’s cock twitched, interested once again in the proceedings. Elias stroked a hand along the back of his neck, and Martin knew he was aware of exactly how aroused Martin still was.
They arranged Martin like a doll, fixing his limbs as they please. Martin found himself reminded uncomfortably of the Stranger’s marionettes, but the sheer want pulsing through his veins kept him from protesting. The position he found himself in was humiliating: on his knees, with his face down and his arse up, hands behind his back, head hanging low. He felt hands stroking him all over, and he didn’t know whether they were meant to comfort or simply to remind him of the claim they’d staked.
Someone pinched his arse, and he yelped, flailing against the restraints, but they only got tighter. Peter chuckled and grabbed him by the hair, pulling him up for a bruising kiss that made Martin melt against him. He was fully hard again, and he knew they could see it.
“I think you’ve rather neglected Elias,” Peter said. “Don’t you think you should make it up to him?”
Martin nodded frantically, and he found himself face-first in Elias’s lap. He risked a glance upward to find Elias watching him with a smirk on his lips. Elias took himself in hand, rubbing his cock against the side of Martin’s face and leaving a damp trail. Martin opened his mouth, but Elias kept his cock just out of reach.
“I don’t know if you’ve earned the right,” Elias murmured.
“H-how do I earn it?” he panted, licking his lips. He felt Peter rubbing his hands over his arse, squeezing firmly.
“You may beg for it, if you like,” Elias said, with an air of careless generosity.
“Please let me suck you off,” Martin said, looking up into Elias’s face as best he could from his position. “I want it so bad.”
“Am I to give you whatever you like, simply because you desire it?”
“I, I’ll make it good for you. Y-you can fuck my mouth as hard as you like, I don’t mind.”
“Not good enough.” Elias said coldly.
Peter pressed slick fingers back into Martin’s hole, and he whined and pressed back against them.
“Please let me show you who I belong to,” he begged.
Elias smiled. “Good boy,” he said, taking himself in hand. With one hand on his cock and the other in Martin’s hair, he rubbed the head over Martin’s lips, then against his tongue. Martin moaned gratefully.
“A born cocksucker, that one,” Peter commented, stroking Martin’s rim from the inside and making him mewl.
“The Archivist really doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Elias said, pushing deeper into Martin’s mouth. They spoke above Martin’s head as if he weren’t even there, and it only made his blood run hotter.
“A pity,” Peter said. “We’ll have to enjoy the boy for him, won’t we?”
He hated to think of Jon in this situation, hated that the idea of Jon’s eyes on him made him shiver, but his mouth was too full to protest, and soon he felt Peter’s thick cock teasing his hole. He pushed back against it, and Peter laughed, slapping him on the arse again.
“So needy, our Martin,” he commented, just barely prodding his entrance. “Bet you wish he was here, don’t you? So he could have his turn with you.”
Martin whimpered around his mouthful of cock. Elias gripped his hair, pulling him off with a wet sound.
“He asked you a question, little whore,” Elias said sharply.
“P-peter, please, just—”
“Answer me, or you’re not getting fucked,” Peter told him, gripping his arse and squeezing so hard Martin gasped. “You want Jon to fuck your tight little arse, don’t you?
“Yes! I want it! I want him!” he cried shamefully. “God, just fuck me, please.”
“How can I refuse when you ask so nicely?” Peter asked.
Gripping Martin’s hips, he pushed into Martin with one smooth stroke, no hesitation, no time to adjust. Martin moaned loudly, and Elias slid his cock back into Martin’s mouth, filled him twice over. Peter quickly set a merciless pace, fucking into him with abandon.
Martin had never felt so wanted in his life, tied down and used by men who wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice him to their gods. Every groan and shudder from them made Martin feel useful, needed, even if he knew it was a trap. Peter fucked him with all the strength of his broad frame, while Elias used his mouth slowly, almost leisurely. They pushed and pulled him between them, leaving him unbalanced, teetering towards the edge of a precipice.
“Let us in,” Elias demanded, and Martin gazed up at him, uncomprehending. They’d filled all his holes, using his body as they saw fit, fucking into him selfishlessly and savagely; if there was a way to let them in further, he didn’t know it.
Elias cupped Martin’s cheek, willing him to understand, never breaking eye contact, even as he fucked his mouth. His eyes were like pits, dark and endless as he spoke.
“Let. Us. In.”
Then Martin understood: something inside him opened, like an eye inside his chest, parting the flesh and bone in a wet slide of muscle. Blood and ichor dripped onto the sheets, onto Elias’s legs, but they didn’t stop fucking him. The room fell away, his body fell away, until he was only dimly aware of the sounds and sights of their sex. He found himself bodiless, mindless, suspended over the whole of London, at once of it and outside it.
It hurt. He knew every inch of stone, each motorway, each blade of grass. He knew the thoughts of every passerby. Eight million faces, and behind each of those, a name, a story, a history of hurts and traumas and fears. Overshadowing them all were the powers that ruled them, nightmares borne to the level of gods, and he saw the works of each of them, except his own. It was all too much, more than any mind was ever meant to hold. He screamed, and no one heard him.
Jon, Jon, Jon, help me, he begged silently, and somehow he was there in Jon’s flat now, safe in four walls and the knowledge of his Archivist’s presence, but he wasn’t there, not really. Jon was sitting on the sofa, curled in on himself, staring down at his mobile and staring past it at the same time. He dialed a number, watching it ring out to voicemail, then hung up and dialed again. When no one answered, he finally hurled the phone at the wall as hard as he could, breaking the glass screen and littering the floor with shattered plastic. Jon put his head in his hands, shaking.
Martin didn’t want to see any more. He was dimly aware that Peter and Elias were still fucking him, though time had gone strange, flowing slow and sticky like molasses.
He found himself in the archives, watching Daisy and Basira. They were curled around each other on one of the cots, Basira rubbing circles into Daisy’s back as she trembled. Perhaps a nightmare, or a flashback, or some other awful thing that was now their daily existence. Daisy kissed Basira’s throat, gently, and Martin felt a flash of shame for intruding.
Instead, he found himself in a familiar room, sterile white and grey, with fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The face resting on the hospital-issue pillow was thin and lined and only a little like Martin’s own. Elias had been right about that. Their eyes were the same color, but hers were closed now.
His mother had kept few belongings when she moved: her knitting needles; a shelf full of books; a thick wooden cross hung on the wall. A few letters from friends sat on the bedside table, postcards and the like. Somehow Martin knew that if he looked into the dust bin, he’d find his own, unopened, and he felt his heart sink.
That was when he felt the presence in the back of his mind. Something was watching him, seeing him, looking over and through him. It wasn’t just Elias, but something about it felt the same, felt familiar, somehow between wrapped safely and being flayed alive in the same instant.
MINE was the thought that rang through him, and it was not its own. He felt himself witnessed, inspected, from each hair on the crown of his head to each whorl on the soles of his feet, every pore of his skin, every nerve and vessel and length of viscera, and the secret places inside his skull. That inhuman gaze scorched him, burned its mark into him, claiming him before all the world.
YOURS, Martin’s soul echoed, and he let it swallow him whole.
All at once, he was sucked back into his body, with its blood and its sweat and its searing need , the sounds and scents of sex all around him, the musky taste of cock in his mouth and the driving rhythm of the man using his arse. It was at once too much and just perfect, and he groaned around the flesh in his mouth. Someone wrapped callused fingers around his cock, squeezing too hard, and he felt himself shaking, spasming, coming undone in a glorious searing instant. He might have screamed.
Peter and Elias followed at their leisure. Elias pulled out to come all over Martin’s face, then pushed it into his mouth with his fingers. Martin took it obediently, licking him clean, surprised to find it mingled with the salt taste of tears. Peter gripped his hips tight when he came, buried in his arse, leaving bruises for Martin to remember. The wet sensation made him realize he’d forgot to ask about condoms, and he would have laughed if he’d had the energy. What was safe sex when you let monsters take you to bed?
“Well done, lad,” Peter murmured, releasing the restraints one by one. He untied the ropes, kissing his wrists and his ankles as he released each knot. Martin laid there, boneless, letting him. He wound up curled with his head in Elias’s lap, Elias stroking his hair as if he were a valued pet. Peter pulled the blanket over them, and Martin realized he was shaking. Peter wiped a tear from under his eye. At least the blood was gone, Martin thought, if it had ever been there at all.
“Does it—” Martin stopped, pausing to lick his lips. “Does it always hurt like that?”
“Yes and no,” Elias told him. “It will always hurt, but it will never be the same, either.”
Martin shuddered at the thought of a next time.
“You liked it, didn’t you?” he asked. “Knowing that it hurt me.”
“And you liked being hurt,” Elias said, stroking his face.
Martin had nothing to say to that.
“Get over here, lad.”
Peter scooped Martin up as if he weighed no more than a child, arranging him to lie on his chest. His hands stroked Martin’s arms, back, and thighs, anywhere he could reach, with a possessive finality. Martin knew they would ask to have him again, and he knew he would say yes, whatever it entailed, whether they had him as mortal men or as monsters. He felt an odd sense of peace, cradled against his hard chest.
Martin wasn’t sure how long they laid there like that, until Elias spoke.
“We’ve only got a few hours until morning count,” he said.
“We’d best be going, then, shouldn’t we?”
Kissing Martin on the forehead, Peter slid out from under him, bending to collect his clothes. Martin watched him from under the blankets, unsure of what to do as the two men dressed.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, but I won’t be back until late.”
Martin nodded awkwardly.
“I would suggest a shower,” Elias said, and Martin flushed.
He was acutely aware of how filthy he was; covered in sweat, cheeks streaked with dried tears, come dripping from his arse and thighs. He nodded again, and made his way to the bathroom so he wouldn’t have to watch them leave.
He wasn’t sure how long he spent under the hot spray. It never seemed to grow cold, unlike the ancient creaking pipes in his flat, where he was lucky to get more than eight minutes of tepid water. Peter had an assortment of shampoos and soaps, and Martin distracted himself by opening each to take a sniff before picking the ones he wanted (a shampoo and conditioner scented like green tea with mint, and clean-smelling soap with notes of citrus). He realized he knew exactly where Peter had gotten them, and from whom: the soap was a gift from Elias, whereas the shampoo left by a girl Peter had taken a shine to for a few weeks. He’d fed her to his god in the end, and she’d screamed for weeks, trapped in a featureless void. Martin shivered despite the humid air.
When he was sure he was alone, he stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in one of Peter’s fluffy white towels (from a shop in Paris), then wrapped his hair in another (stolen from a hotel in Sydney). Padding around the apartment, he searched for his clothes. Beholding did not see fit to reveal the location of his pants, but at least he had his jeans and jumper, even if he hissed at the feel of rough denim against his bare skin.
His mobile buzzed in his pocket. Odd. Most of the calls he got these days were from Peter himself, and he doubted Peter was worried about work at the moment. Turning on the display, he felt his blood run cold.
Seventeen missed calls, all from Jonathan Sims.