Peter was right-- his shiny new assistant certainly is something. Pity that Peter clearly has no idea what to do with him. Simon can tell the young man is bored out of his mind, holed up in his office, and, well. Isolated. Of course. Peter would probably be quite grumpy about Simon’s interference, but the old bastard was hardly ever around to find out about it.
There he is, at his desk. Martin, face illuminated by the glow of his computer screen. He is hunched underneath a threadbare blanket, making his bulky frame look diminutive and childish. He looks tired.
Martin looks up as Simon sweeps into his office, startles slightly. He mustn’t have been expecting an interruption. Simon would bet that he doesn’t get very many visitors these days.
“Just the man I was looking for!” Simon exclaims, swanning his way through the staticky feeling that fills his head as Martin tries to fade from existence. “Martin, my friend, how are you doing today?”
“We’re not friends,” says Martin, bluntly and predictably. His eyes are bloodshot and his round face seems incongruously thin and drawn.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” says Simon, sitting himself down on the edge of the desk. “Do you really have enough other friends these days to be picky?”
Martin ignores him. Simon peers around the edge of his computer, sees he’s doing something involving a spreadsheet or a database. There are lists of what Simon thinks might be the Ceaseless Watcher’s little statements, with some sort of relevant information appended to them for easy cross-referencing. Almost certainly something to do with Peter’s Extinction treasure hunt. Boring.
“Do you mind?” asks Martin testily, turning the monitor away from Simon’s gaze. “I don’t suppose you’ll leave if I just ask you to. I’m actually rather busy right now.”
“Depends,” Simon says. “Can you suggest something more interesting for me to do instead? I could go talk to that woman with the doors who lives in the tunnels, she seems like she’d be a laugh.”
Martin sighs. “You mean Helen? I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Simon thinks he might go do that anyway. Martin is being such a drag today. He looks sad, and grey around the edges, which means Peter must be getting to him. Peter himself can be quite delightful, of course, but people who spend too much time around him tend to have all the fun sucked out of them. Luckily, Simon is here now to liven things up.
“I really don’t think it’s good for you, only having old fuddy-duddies like me and Peter to talk to,” Simon remarks idly, as he casts around for something on Martin’s desk to fiddle with. “You should spend more time with people your own age.” It’s a very bare and impersonal desk, but there is a pen sitting within arm’s reach, so he picks it up. He presses the button on the top to click the nib in and out of it repeatedly. Truly an ingenious invention!
Martin gives him a flat and unimpressed look at this little bit of life advice, then reaches over and snatches the pen back out of his hands. Simon grins.
“Honestly?” Martin says, turning the pen over in his hand. “I thought that myself for a while, but I never did spend that much time with other people even before all this Lonely business.”
“Bit of a shame, nice lad like you,” says Simon. He tucks a stray curl behind Martin’s ear, and Martin just barely flinches away from the unexpected contact, before leaning into it. Like a startled cat. Simon laughs quietly at this conflicted reaction. “How long’s it been since anyone’s touched you? Or spoken to you, even?”
“You know very well how long,” Martin grumbles. “Not like anyone talks to me except you. And Peter, on the odd occasion.”
Simon shrugs. “I have trouble keeping track of time.” And anyway, he wanted to hear Martin confirm it.
Simon lives a pretty solitary existence, himself, so he can sympathise. Most people struggle to keep up with him. So whenever he manages to form a fleeting connection, he likes to wring every last bit of experience out of it, before it falls away from him.
Martin is still looking at his computer, clicking away with his mouse, but from the way his eyes keep darting off towards Simon, he’s obviously distracted.
“Well, I can see where I’m not wanted, and I would hate to be an inconvenience.” Simon slips off the table and makes to head towards the door. But before he can go anywhere, Martin’s hand has wrapped around his wrist.
“Stay where you are,” Martin orders him, and oh, that still gives Simon shivers.
“So you do want company!” Simon says. “Not so determined to be lonely after all, hmm?”
“Maybe not,” Martin murmurs, with something that might even be a hint of a smile. Simon didn’t really go into this with the aim of making Peter’s little assistant happy, his goals were always more selfish than that, but he must admit the fella has a sweet smile.
“How would you like me?” Simon asks, suddenly feeling quite compliant and uncharacteristically eager to please. Amazing what a bit of incentive will do for a man’s attitude. “I think I’d enjoy being bent over your desk, if your marvellous computing machine won’t mind sharing the space.”
“It’s an inanimate object, of course it won’t mind,” Martin replies, rolling his eyes as he shifts the monitor and keyboard to the side. He also opens the top drawer of his desk, where he has been keeping a bottle of lubricant for the past few weeks. Or possibly he kept it there even before their acquaintance, Simon wouldn’t pretend to know.
Simon gets his elbows on the desk and bends over. He can just assume the position and Martin will take care of the rest of it, it’s all quite convenient. He gives his arse a bit of a shimmy for emphasis.
“Stop that,” says Martin, but there’s a warmth in his voice that could be a prelude to laughter. Oh, Peter would be so mad if he knew. Simon pictures Peter’s impotent rage at the idea of his assistant having illicit positive emotions behind his back, and finds he quite likes it. Bet you never saw this coming when you sent me to go talk to him for you, Simon thinks. Or maybe he did. Peter knows full well what Simon’s like. But maybe he’d just thought his assistant’s misery and self-isolation would be too complete for such an incursion.
Martin’s hands are initially soft and hesitant on the buckle of Simon’s trousers, but he pulls them down with an authoritative yank.
“Careful with those,” Simon says. “They’re vintage.”
“They’re old and ugly, is what,” Martin replies. But he eases them gently down to hang around Simon’s knees. Such a sweet lad, Simon thinks.
Martin’s fingers are cold on Simon’s exposed skin. Simon shivers happily at the perfunctory caress across his hip and down one skinny arsecheek. Cold hands, warm heart? He thinks to himself. That’s what they say, anyway. But Martin will be cured of that eventually, if Peter gets his way, so Simon should enjoy it while he can.
“Not too much of the lubricant this time, hmm?” Simon asks. “I want to actually feel it.”
“I’ll use as much lube as I think I need to, thanks,” says Martin. He’s using snappishness to conceal his need to be considerate and gentle, and Simon can see right through him. It’s amusing and endearing in equal measures.
The lubricant is cold as well, and Simon can’t help clenching around the finger that enters him. But Martin’s finger moves pretty easily, and he can relax into it immediately.
The cajoling and anticipation leading up to this hadn’t quite been enough to make Simon fully hard, but the gentle stimulation of Martin’s finger is getting him there.
“Little bit deeper,” Simon encourages, and Martin does as he’s told, although his finger is only so long. “Go ahead and put another one in, you know I can take it.” The excessive lubrication and careful stretching which Martin insists on putting him through are a little bit of a trial, to be honest, but he’ll get rougher when he gets more into it. Martin seems convinced that Simon would break if he just bent him over the desk and went for it, even though he knows full well Simon isn’t hardly as frail as he looks.
Simon thinks that if Martin insists on being so bloody thorough about it, the least he could do is use his mouth. But that might be a little too up close and personal for a skittish almost-avatar of the Lonely to handle.
“Right-o!” Simon announces after a brief spell of Martin’s slightly clumsy fingering. “I think that’s more than enough.”
“Don’t be bossy,” says Martin sternly. Simon feels like his dick maybe gives a bit of a twitch at that.
“If you don’t like it, you should give me a smack,” he suggests, trying not to sound too hopeful.
“Ugh, that would only encourage you,” Martin mutters, but then-- to Simon’s complete surprise-- he gamely winds up and gives Simon a tidy little slap on the arse. Simon is so shocked by it he jumps and gasps, far more than such a gentle blow would otherwise warrant.
“Sorry, sorry!” Martin says immediately. “Did I hurt you?”
“Barely,” Simon scoffs. “Do it harder next time.”
“I’ve, um. Obviously never spanked anyone before,” Martin sheepishly admits.
Simon rolls his eyes. “Obviously,” he repeats. “But there’s one way to get better at it, isn’t there?”
Simon can tell from the jump in Martin’s breathing that he’s about to do it again. He lands it on the other cheek this time, a little harder. The bright sting of it makes Simon’s blood fizz. Martin spanks him three more times, each in roughly the same place as the last, and Simon can tell each time just when he’s about to do it. That seems to be enough for Martin though, because he leaves off after that. Simon decides not to push him to keep going. He does still want to get fucked, sooner rather than later. He’s got other places to be today.
Infuriatingly, Martin seems to feel it necessary to put his fingers back in Simon’s arse, as if he’s making sure Simon hadn’t suddenly clenched up all over again in the minutes that had elapsed. He’s overdone it a little on the lubricant again, Simon realises. He can feel it starting to trail down the inside of his thigh.
“Come on, let’s go, I’m not getting any younger here,” Simon cajoles him.
“Don’t I know it,” Martin mutters.
“Hey!” says Simon. “Don’t be rude. I’m the only one allowed to joke about my age.”
Martin’s only response to that is to unzip his trousers. Excited, Simon looks over his shoulder to get a look at Martin, hand on his dick, working himself to hardness. It’s a really good dick, and Simon has got plenty of points of comparison. Martin doesn’t use it quite as well as some men Simon has met, but he’s generous with it, and he’s learning. In fact his lack of finesse is almost charming. Simon isn’t exactly known for his patience or generosity, but it isn’t too much of a chore to help Martin get some practice in.
Martin places a hand on the small of Simon’s back, holding him still, and uses the other to guide himself into place. Simon has to restrain himself from wriggling with delight at the feel of the blunt head of it nudging against his hole, as Martin tries to get his aim right. It’s a smooth slide after that, courtesy of all that tedious preparation, and Simon happily shifts back to meet it.
Over his shoulder, he can see Martin biting his lip and scrunching his eyes shut. After a moment of this, he seems to adjust, and lets out a shaky breath. “Okay,” he murmurs to himself.
“Come on,” Simon says, giving an encouraging squeeze around the satisfying girth of Martin’s dick. Doing so makes Martin’s breathing stutter again, but he manages to pull himself together enough to rock his hips back.
They’ve done this a couple of times now, so Simon knows he has to put a bit of effort in to help Martin get a rhythm going. He fucks himself back towards Martin’s first few hesitant thrusts, and soon enough Martin is achingly hard and starting to get excited about it. The hand that was guiding Martin’s dick goes to grip Simon’s hip, and the hand on Simon’s back stays there. And now Simon can feel it, really feel the pleasurable stretch as Martin’s dick drives in and out of him, forcing him open.
“You’re getting better at this,” Simon comments. He reaches back, groping blindly to try and grab for Martin’s hip or ass to urge him on. Martin clearly doesn’t appreciate this, as he takes hold of Simon’s wrist again, bringing it forward to pin against the desk. God, yes, Simon thinks. If Peter hadn’t got there first, Martin would have been a prime recruit for the Mother of Spiders, what with his penchant for control. He’s very polite about it, and he’s never once left a serious bruise, even on Simon’s fragile skin. But Simon does so love it when Martin orders him around.
Finally, Martin manages to fuck Simon deep enough, and at just the right angle to hit his prostate. Simon hisses through his teeth.
“Liked that, did you?” Martin asks. Noises usually seem to encourage him, make him bolder. He seems to almost blossom under positive feedback.
“Oh, very much, try and do it again,” Simon says approvingly, and Martin does try. Mostly, he succeeds. He’s starting to get a good rhythm going, hitting hard and deep and satisfying, and now he’s managed that Simon knows he can keep it up for a while. That’s what Martin is, solid and reliable, if not a particularly inspiring fuck.
He is also reliable in that he can generally be trusted to give a fellow a reacharound. Martin’s hand is proportionally big, strong-fingered but soft. It feels quite divine as it wraps around Simon’s cock. Simon suspects the reason why Martin is so good at giving handjobs from this angle is because it’s almost the same as doing it to himself. His other hand is still holding Simon’s wrist against the desk.
“Oh, I rather think I’m about to come,” Simon eventually announces.
Martin gropes blindly for the box of tissues on his desk, managing to grab a couple in time. He has them ready and waiting for Simon to spill into. His orgasm is a short, sharp punch. He bucks forward into Martin’s hand, closing his eyes momentarily as the pleasure washes over him.
Now comes the coda that Simon, perversely, rather likes. He is spent and oversensitive, but Martin is full of vigour yet. He grabs hold of Simon’s hips in both hands (maybe hard enough to bruise, Simon thinks hopefully, but it’s unlikely) and resumes his thrusting. He is rough and clumsy, distracted, less concerned about Simon’s pleasure or even his comfort. Simon grips onto the edge of the desk, his knobbly knuckles standing out pale through his skin.
Martin is normally very quiet and self-conscious, but when he is very close to orgasm he will occasionally let slip a couple of little noises. Simon enjoys this vulnerability immensely. He sounds almost like a wounded animal when he comes, burying his face against Simon’s bony shoulder. Something small and soft and defenceless that would rather crawl away and lick its wounds in private. He stays there a while, holding Simon’s body pressed up against his chest, until the continued contact becomes uncomfortable for both of them. Simon winces slightly as Martin pulls out.
“Well,” says Martin, awkwardly and rather unnecessarily, as he balls up the tissues he’d dropped on his desk, and throws them into the bin. He does his trousers up. Simon can hear the faint clink of his belt buckle as he puts himself to rights.
“Quite,” Simon agrees, remaining braced against the desk for a moment longer to catch his breath. “Jolly good show, my boy,” he adds after a while, straightening up.
“Please don’t call me that,” says Martin, grimacing. “I know you know how to act like a normal person.”
“No fun,” Simon mutters, a common refrain. Still, it seems their business here has come to an end. He pulls his trousers back on, and wishes he’d thought to bring a pocket mirror, so he could check whether his sparse wisps of hair were acceptably tidy. It wouldn’t do to head back out looking like some sort of recently-tumbled degenerate, even if that’s exactly what he is.
Alas, there is no time to stick around and chat. Simon is a busy man, and Martin is a lonely one. The light and interest in his eyes, kindled by their banter and the brief moment of contact they shared, is already beginning to dissipate. Martin’s attention has shifted back to his duties. The room feels very slightly colder.
“Well,” said Simon, heading for the window. “Thank you for a most diverting time, but I must be off.”
Martin doesn’t raise a protest, doesn’t even look particularly interested in Simon’s words. He pulls his computer back to the centre of his desk, and wraps his discarded blanket back around his shoulders. He glances up briefly, at the sound of the old office window rattling open.
“Can you shut that behind you this time?” Martin asks. “It lets a draft in.”
“Certainly,” Simon agrees, hauling a leg over the window sill. “Cheerio, then. Perhaps I’ll drop in again next week.”
“I’ll be here,” Martin says. Not a promise, simply a resigned statement of fact. Simon suspects he might actually sleep in his office, all the better to avoid unnecessary human interaction. Or perhaps he simply fades from existence when Simon is not around.
Martin watches as Simon gets himself through the window. The outer sill is just wide enough for him to balance there, clinging to the side of this evil old building, several floors above the London streets with their insignificant little people. Pulling the window shut behind him, as requested, is his one good deed for the day.
Martin gives a brief, halfhearted wave. Simon grins at him, offers a jaunty salute, before he flings himself off the building, into the sky, and then is gone from view.