Chapter Text
"It is a miserable state of mind to have few things to desire and many things to fear." — Francis Bacon
"I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and ruler of my universe." — Anaïs Nin
Martin knocks to announce his presence before opening the door to Elias’ office, his heart beating fast. Asking Elias for something is always risky; if Martin catches him in the right mood, and flatters him the right way, he might get what he needs. If not...
“Ah, Martin. You’re just in time.” Elias says, opening a manila folder on his desk. “Under the desk, please.”
Elias resumes his work, ignoring Martin as he strips, piling his clothes on a chair in the corner. Elias doesn’t like mess, or complaints, just quiet obedience. Once Martin has removed his clothing, he goes to his knees and crawls under the desk. He doesn’t move once he’s there. He learned long ago not to try to predict Elias.
At first, Elias contents himself with directing Martin to lay his head on his thigh, reaching down from time to time to absently pet his hair as he works. It’s surprisingly warm in the room, as if Elias turned the heating up. He suspects Elias only likes him to be uncomfortable when he’s the cause. Martin listens to him muttering over spreadsheets, tapping his pen absently against the desk. He doesn’t know or care what Elias is working on.
Eventually Elias’s hand tightens in his hair, and he drags Martin’s face against his groin. Martin mouths him obediently through the fabric of his tailored trousers, and is rewarded with a low groan.
“You know what to do,” Elias tells him, and it’s true. Martin reaches to unzip him, pulling out his hardening cock with practiced hands. He nuzzles it against his face, sucking lazy kisses up the sides; Elias likes when he’s eager, and is less likely to ask for anything more taxing if Martin does a good job.
Above him, Elias dials a number. Martin takes him into his mouth as it begins ringing. Elias’s voice is calm and professional as he discusses some minor administrative issue, as if he weren’t hard in Martin’s mouth, being sucked slowly and attentively. On a different day, Martin would try to make him lose his composure, using every filthy trick he’s picked up, but that would only draw retaliation. He doesn’t want that. Today he has a different goal in mind.
Rosie comes in to ask Elias about a scheduling conflict, and Elias answers her for all the world as if he doesn’t have a naked employee under his desk. Martin fights to keep his breathing steady, heart racing as he fights the paranoid idea that she’s going to come around the desk and see him. She never has before, though. He wonders, not for the first time, if she notices his clothes piled in the chair, or realizes he never left his “meeting.”
After she leaves, Elias’s hips begin to rock against his mouth, choking Martin before he manages to swallow around him and adjust. His throat threatens to rebel with each thrust, but he does his best to keep working Elias with his lips and tongue, to stay silent and unobtrusive under the desk. Elias grabs his hair tight and pulls him down hard, until his lips meet neatly trimmed curls, and his throat spasms around the length of Elias’s cock. Martin’s eyes water, and he gags until Elias pulls out again. He doesn’t get much reprieve; Elias drags him back down again, fucking Martin’s face as if he were a toy, or his own fist. Martin’s nails dig into his palms as he struggles to keep up.
After what seems like an eternity, Elias finally releases him, taking his cock in hand so he can finish in thick spurts across Martin’s face, groaning as he paints Martin’s cheeks and lips and lashes to mix with the tears. Martin shudders, keeping his eyes closed, as he doesn’t dare wipe it away.
“Adequately done,” Elias remarks with a sigh.
Martin bristles at the lukewarm praise; if he doesn’t like Martin’s head, he can fuck someone else. He immediately regrets the thought. Without his...supplementary duties, Elias has no reason to keep him on.
He hears the click and whirr of a camera shutter, and bites his lip. He can’t help but wonder if Elias prints them to look at later, or if he just does it because Martin hates having his picture taken even when he’s not naked and covered in come. Something soft brushes his face, wiping the come from his skin, and he opens his eyes to see Elias’s handkerchief. It’s monogrammed, which Martin has always found obnoxious.
“I gather there was something you wanted to discuss?”
Elias doesn’t ask Martin to stand, or put on his clothes. He’d much rather have Martin approach on his knees, a supplicant, than treat him like a regular employee.
“It’s—about my mum,” he says nervously. There’s something incredibly wrong about discussing her while he’s naked in front of another man, but it’s not like he has a choice. He tries not to think about how disgusted she’d be if she knew how he paid for her care.
“How is Alicja?” Elias asks, pretending to be surprised.
“She’s—not great,” Martin admits. “The doctors want to try an experimental therapy, but...it’s not covered by the NHS.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Elias says, his face a mask of neutrality.
Martin swallows his pride. “I was wondering if y—if the Institute could...help out, a bit.”
Elias looks at him contemplatively, and Martin fights not to flinch. He always feels like Elias is looking into him, as clearly as if Martin were flayed open across his desk, gleaming muscles and viscera on display. It’s...unnerving, to say the least.
“I suppose,” Elias concedes. “But I may need you to take up some additional duties.”
Martin nearly sags with relief. He didn’t expect it to be so easy; he supposes he caught Elias in the right mood after all. “Of course! I understand completely. Should I start coming earlier in the morning, or…?”
Elias smiles. “I had something else in mind. Are you familiar with my Archivist?”
Martin's heart sinks. "Elias, you can't mean—"
But of course he can. Elias holds the purse strings, holds Martin's strings, and he can ruin everything with a word.
"Have you—tired of me?" Martin blurts out. He can't think of another reason for Elias to send him to the Archives. His heart hammers in his chest. He doesn’t know exactly what goes on down there, but he’s heard stories about the Archivist. That he’s spent too long studying the horrors they collect. There are rumors he may be one of them himself. They always seem to focus on his eyes. How they see too much, too deeply. How there’s no way to keep secrets from him. How he may be responsible for the disappearances of his assistants. There’s no proof; officially, the last ones went on sabbatical and never returned.
Elias chuckles. "This isn't a dismissal, Martin. Quite the opposite: the Archivist is key to our mission, and serving him is an honor. We haven't lost an archival assistant in well over a year."
"What would I even... do down there?”
"Whatever he requires. Thankfully, his needs are few: filing statements, performing research. And...one other thing."
Elias pauses, clearly expecting Martin to ask. Martin suppresses a sigh.
"What other thing?"
"The Archivist often spends time with our donors, and other interested parties. Your job is to make sure no one gets…carried away." Elias raises his brows. "You may participate, or simply watch. That's between you, the Archivist, and the donors."
"You want me to chaperone," Martin says disbelievingly. "Why does a— he need a chaperone?"
Elias smiles. "You aren't only there for Jon's protection."
As if Martin could stop a monster from devouring its prey. As if he would be anything other than prey himself.
"Come now, Martin," Elias cajoles. "It's not that bad. You might even enjoy yourself. You always do with me."
Martin flushes deeply, but he doesn't argue.
"When do I start?"
==
Everyone knows where the Archives are: through the lobby, past the door with a brass plaque reading “A R C H I V E” and down the steep, narrow staircase beyond. Nobody goes down there, though. Not unless they have to, and only archival assistants have to, and there hasn’t been an archival assistant in over a year.
The Archivist himself is a creature of rumor. Some people say he sleeps in the Archives during the day, emerging at night to roam the Institute; some people say he doesn’t sleep at all. Lena from Research once told Martin that she’d run into him in the corridor late one Tuesday evening. “I couldn’t really see his face,” she whispered. “But he had glowing eyes. And his voice! It was...well, it was spooky.” When pressed as to what the Archivist had actually said to her, she admitted that he had asked her if she knew where they kept the staples.
“I told him where the stationery cupboard was,” she confided.
Martin descends the staircase slowly, the wooden steps creaking under his careful tread. He clutches the notice of transferral that Elias gave him in one hand, as if it were a totem that could protect him. His heart is racing. Stay calm, he tells himself. He doesn’t know if the Archivist can...smell fear, or sense it, or something, but showing that he’s afraid doesn’t seem like a good idea.
The stairway opens out into a wide room with a low ceiling. It’s mostly filled with rows of shelves, though he can see a few unoccupied desks sitting in one corner. It’s chilly, the air faintly musty, but it’s surprisingly well lit; Martin had been expecting more of a gloomy cellar. He takes a few tentative steps past the first rows of shelves, his heart still pounding. Across the room, he can see what looks like a small office, blinds pulled down over the window and the door standing ajar. A shadow moves across the doorway, and Martin startles.
“Stop that!” he whispers sternly to himself. “Don’t show fear, remember?” He walks towards the door, and stops maybe ten feet away, just far enough to give himself a head start if he needs it. “Hello?” he calls.
There’s a sound of sudden footsteps; the door is flung open and a man storms out.
“Honestly, Elias,” the man declares, “You really need to get the heating fixed, I’ve been asking about it for—” The tirade cuts off as the man’s eyes land on Martin; he stops in his tracks, and blinks a few times. “Who are you?”
“I’m...Martin,” Martin manages to say. “Blackwood?” he continues when the man doesn’t react. “I’m the new archival assistant? I didn’t expect there to be anyone else down here, actually, I thought the place was empty other than...well, you know.”
“Do I,” the man says flatly. “So you’re Elias’ latest set of eyes, then? I suppose it was too much to hope he’d given up on sacrificing assistants.”
“Sorry, s—sacrificing?” Martin’s heart is racing, and he’s not entirely sure he’s following. The man sighs theatrically.
“You are aware what sort of entity you’re employed by, yes? And what the life expectancy is for assistants down here?”
“Right,” says Martin. “Right. So what do I—?”
“You can take any of the desks over there.” The man gestures carelessly. “Sasha always liked the one right under the heating vent, in the winter, but since the bloody heating isn’t working it’s all much of a muchness.”
“I could…ask Rosie to put a call into the maintenance company? She manages all that stuff anyway, it’s beneath Elias.”
The man looks slightly surprised.
“That would be... helpful,” he says stiffly. He takes a couple of steps forward and extends a hand. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Martin Blackwood,” says Martin, and takes the offered hand; the man has long, delicate looking fingers, but a surprisingly strong grip.
“Jonathan Sims,” the man says, and Martin realizes that he’s shaking hands with the Archivist. His brain screams at him to run, but his legs have other ideas: they stay planted numbly until the Archivist releases his hand and steps back.
“Well, as I say, help yourself to a desk. Don’t bother me when I’m working. Otherwise, I don’t really care what you do.”
He turns on his heel and disappears back into his office before Martin can coax any words from his terrified throat. The door slams shut behind him. Eventually, Martin manages to make his way across the room on wobbly legs, and plops down in one of the desk chairs.
“Right…” he breathes. That’s the Archivist, then. Not exactly what Martin expected; less glowing eyes and spooky voice, and more just...a tired looking man. With a rather enthralling voice, in fact, deep and imperious. He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes. Nobody really knows much about the Archivist, and he does have a person’s name—even if Elias is the only one who uses it. Martin just hadn’t expected him to look quite so human.
Good looking, too, a treacherous voice in the back of his head supplies; Martin squashes that thought before it can take root. Yes, all right, the glasses and graying hair give him a stern, academic look, and lord knows Martin’s always had a thing for authoritative older men, and his voice— Martin shakes his head furiously; not going there. It’s bad enough he’s down here, without making things immediately worse for himself.
So what now? His new boss apparently doesn’t care what he does, and Elias’ description of his duties was pretty vague. There are boxes of files scattered around between the desks, labeled by post-it notes with cryptic titles scribbled on them. He could start by sorting those, he supposes.
First things first, though. He picks up the phone and dials through to Rosie’s desk.
==
At first, Martin thought the Archivist might have been exaggerating his lack of interest in Martin’s activities. Perhaps trying to lull him into complacency before making a meal of him. To Martin’s surprise, though, he’s largely left to his own devices.
On his first day, he picks through the boxes that occupy the main office. They mostly contain statements, though they don’t appear to be sorted in any useful way—not by date, or Entity, or even by statement giver—the last would be particularly useless, given how many people provide statements under false names, but at least it would be a start. A few files contain follow-up notes, corroborating evidence. At first, he intends to work until the Archivist dismisses him, but the door to the office stays firmly shut. As evening passes into night, Martin spends the better part of an hour working up the courage to knock.
“Archi—Jon?” he calls, biting his lip.
He waits, feeling more than a little stupid. The Archivist either doesn’t hear him, or doesn’t care.
“I’m going home now,” Martin says. “Unless you need me. Good night.”
The next morning, he’s greeted not by the Archivist but by a pair of workmen, looking none too pleased to be in the Archives.
“Good morning,” he says. “Are you here to fix the heating?”
The workmen mutter an affirmative, avoiding eye contact, and a knot forms in Martin’s stomach. They’re afraid of him, he realizes. Because Martin works for the Archivist, so he must be a monster himself—or at least monster-adjacent. He doesn’t try to make conversation after that, though he does make them tea, which they ignore. They do, at least, manage to fix the heating, and Martin can finally feel his fingertips without having his hands tucked inside his jumper.
He spends the rest of the week taking an inventory of each box, making a spreadsheet with the case numbers, statement givers, and brief descriptions. Once the boxes are sorted, he stacks them neatly in the corner. The office is starting to look less claustrophobic. He even brings in a potted plant, a little fern that doesn’t need much light. The Archivist appears from time to time, though he always gives Martin a wide berth, ignoring his attempts at conversation.
==
Elias summons him for a status update on Thursday. He listens patiently as Martin describes his week.
“I don’t know what you expected,” Martin says irritably. “He barely knows I exist. He won’t even tell me what to do. Whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not working.”
To his surprise, Elias’ lips curl in a satisfied smirk. “On the contrary, Martin,” he says. “I’m quite pleased with your progress.”
Elias shows Martin exactly how pleased he is, ordering him to strip before spreading him over the mahogany desk. His eyes roam Martin’s body as if he hasn’t seen it hundreds of times, and then he bends to kiss the apex of Martin’s thighs, strong hands clutching Martin’s hips as he laps and sucks his cock. He stops just before Martin can come. Before Martin can protest, Elias is pressing into his cunt, fucking him with quick, careful thrusts that leave him breathless. Martin comes with a low curse, gripping the desk with white knuckles as Elias finishes inside him.
Afterwards Elias checks his watch.
“I’ve kept you from Jon far too long,” he says, tucking himself away. To Martin’s irritation, Elias hasn’t even broken a sweat. “Best hurry down to help him before he comes looking for you.”
Elias immediately returns to his paperwork, ignoring Martin as he scrambles back into his clothes, fuming with irritation. Martin doesn’t bother saying goodbye.
Martin returns to find the Archivist searching his desk, scowling and muttering to himself. He’s dragged the boxes from the corner, piling half their contents on the floor.
“Pardon me,” he says carefully, “but what are you doing?”
“Where have you been?” the Archivist demands, whirling around to glare at him. Martin finds himself shrinking back. “I’ve been looking for the Vittery statement for twenty minutes, and you weren’t answering. I have half a mind to fire you.”
What Martin does next is unwise. In his defense, he’s flushed and sweaty and irritable, and he hadn’t had time to clean up before heading down to the Archives. It’s a moment of temporary insanity, it must be, because instead of apologizing, Martin snaps, “You can’t fire me, I work for Elias.”
“Fine, I’ll have Elias fire you,” the Archivist corrects, and continues his diatribe. Something about disrupting crucial systems and shirking his duties.
Before he can do anything more drastic, Martin rushes to his laptop, pulling up the spreadsheet. It takes less than a minute to locate the entry. “C-Carlos Vittery, right? That’s, er... s-statement 0150409. It should be in box 3C.”’
“What?”
Martin walks over to the corner, locating the box he’d labeled 3C—one of the few left undisturbed by the Archivist’s rampage. He flips through the files until he finds 0150409, and hands it over.
“Vittery statement,” Martin says. “Happy?”
“I have a system,” the Archivist says irritably.
“You have a mess. If you don’t want me cleaning up around here, give me something else to do. But personally, I’m tired of tripping over piles of boxes, and the dust was irritating my allergies.”
“Where were you?”
“Meeting with Elias. You know, our boss.”
The Archivist gives him a long, searching look. Martin’s fingers twitch as he fights the urge to look away. Finally the Archivist sighs.
“Thank you for the statement,” he says, turning back to his office.
Martin watches him go.
==
Things proceed much the same way for the next few weeks. The Archivist seems to tolerate Martin’s presence in the way one would tolerate a spider in the corner: aware of him, careful to avoid him, but otherwise ignoring him completely. For Martin’s part, he’s adjusting to his new lot in life. He’s not foolish enough to be unafraid of the Archivist, but the man hasn’t done anything... monstrous since he’s been here, and it’s difficult to be actively fearful when the possible eldritch entity is walking about in a saggy cardigan and reading glasses, muttering to himself about shoddy case research .
“I could follow up on some of the statements?” Martin suggests once, while the Archivist flips furiously through the file Martin’s just handed him, frowning. “If you like. Get me out of your way for a while.” He laughs weakly to show it’s a joke. The Archivist doesn’t look at him, but his frown deepens.
“No,” he says. “It isn’t sa—it’s not a good idea.”
“Didn’t your other assistants help with that?”
“They did. And where are they now?” Martin follows his gaze across the row of empty desks, and shivers. Right. Not a good idea. “Besides, Elias wouldn’t approve.”
His tone drips poisonous resentment, and Martin feels suddenly defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.
The Archivist gives him a withering look. “Well as you’re so fond of reminding me, you work for Elias. I’m sure he wouldn’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way, not when he’s gone to such pains to place you here.”
Martin’s not entirely sure what he’s being accused of: spying, maybe? Or simply of being loyal to his actual boss rather than the monster that lurks in the basement? He resents the implication, even though any loyalty he might ever have had to Elias has long since vanished. He opens his mouth to snap a retort, then thinks better of it. Best not to antagonize his superior, even if he hasn’t yet shown any signs of devouring Martin’s mind whole.
“Right, I’ll just stick to the filing, then,” he says, and turns his attention back to his computer screen. The Archivist lingers for a few moments, but Martin steadfastly ignores him, and eventually he walks off.
If Martin had hoped to see less of Elias in his new role, he’s quickly disillusioned. He’s still summoned to Elias’ office at least twice a week to “report out” on his work in the Archives. He’s not sure that Elias ever listens to what he’s saying, even when he doesn’t find a better use for Martin’s mouth, but there’s money in his account and his mum is getting her treatment, so he isn’t going to complain.
“I’m pleased you’re developing such a good rapport with our Archivist,” Elias tells him, and crooks the fingers he has buried inside Martin so he gasps. Elias has his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his eyes roam coolly over Martin’s body, splayed out on the narrow sofa in his office, taking in every detail of his reactions.
“Not sure what rapport you’re talking about,” Martin huffs, trying to keep his tone flat even as Elias’ thumb strokes over his cock, teasing touches that are enough to make him squirm. “He only admits I exist when he wants something.”
“Precisely—you’re a great help to him already.” Elias twists his wrist and Martin can’t stifle a moan. “He was quite adamant that he didn’t want another assistant after Ms. James...left us. But he’s really taken a shine to you.” His fingers slide out and he pats Martin’s inner thigh familiarly. “On your front, please.”
Martin rolls over to lie on his stomach, and wriggles to get comfortable as Elias pushes a cushion under his hips. Elias straddles him, his cock pressing up between Martin’s thighs.
“The Archivist has an appointment coming up shortly,” he says. The head of his cock nudges against Martin’s slick entrance, and Elias makes a low, satisfied sound as he pushes inside. “I’m sure he’ll be very grateful for your support.”
==
Martin spends the next few days trying not to think too hard about this supposed upcoming appointment. Elias has given him no information about it other than his initial, frustratingly vague talk of the Archivist “spending time” with the donors. Martin has no idea what these meetings entail, and he’s not sure whether he imagined the lascivious note in Elias’ voice when he spoke of it. Surely he’s just reading something into it that isn’t there, due to his personal experiences with Elias? He couldn’t mean—
“Martin.” The voice comes from right beside him and Martin jumps, startled. The Archivist has never snuck up on him before; Martin might have become a bit complacent about sharing his workspace with a—with whatever he is—but he’s still always aware of his location around the Archives. It’s only sensible. Yet here he’s let himself get distracted worrying about this meeting or—or assignation or whatever it is, and now the Archivist is standing right there.
“Hi!” he says, trying to sound like he hasn’t just jumped out of his skin. “What can I help you with?”
“I need a statement from a few years back, Dominic Swain. It involves a Leitner. Title Ex Altiora.” His tone is impatient, even more than usual, and Martin can see his fingers tapping nervously against his thigh.
“Oookay, half a sec…” Martin pulls up the spreadsheet and finds Dominic Swain without difficulty. “Statement 0132806, box 2E.”
He brushes past the Archivist and quickly locates the statement, offering it to him with a flourish; he’s quite proud of the filing system he’s begun, and it’s gratifying that—despite his grumbles— the Archivist has accepted it as a useful addition. It’s a bit of a surprise when the man snatches it from his hand and starts flipping through it, his expression tight. Martin shouldn’t ask, he knows, but he just can’t help himself.
“Everything...all right?”
“There was another statement about Ex Altiora ,” the Archivist says, ignoring the question. “A, uh, a bookseller.”
Martin leans over his desk and filters the spreadsheet for Ex Altiora with a couple of clicks.
“Statement 9981221, Herbert Knox. And—oh, that’s odd.”
“What’s that?”
“Well it’s not only the book,” says Martin, going back to the stack of file boxes and rifling through. “I keep extra columns for other names that come up in the statements, for cross-referencing, and the same name just cropped up in both of—”
“Michael Crew,” the Archivist interrupts.
“Yeah,” says Martin, and holds out the statement. The Archivist takes it, though, rather less abruptly than the first one. “How did you—oh, he’s who you were looking for information on, then?”
“I was. I have a meeting with Mr. Crew tomorrow. Which is why I want to re-read the files on him.”
“Oh,” says Martin, then: “Ohhh… I think I’m supposed to go with you for that, actually.”
“No need.” He waves dismissively, his tone carefully casual. “I don’t require an assistant for this, and you have plenty of work to get on with here.”
“Right, but I’m afraid Elias told me to go with you. It’s one of my main duties.” My only official duty, in fact, he doesn’t add, as the man’s face crumples with obvious discomfort.
“Really, it’s a waste of your time. I’ll—I can talk to Elias about it, I’m sure he’ll agree…” He trails off, his shoulders slumping, and Martin feels a pang of sympathy. He’s not the only one at Elias’ mercy, then.
“Sorry,” he says. The Archivist shakes his head.
“It’s fine,” he sighs. “Just...be prepared.”
“For what?”
“Just about anything,” he says grimly, his mouth twisting into a mocking smile.
==
The Archivist returns from his meeting with Elias with his fists clenched and his mouth in a tight line. Martin doesn’t bother asking how it went. Instead, he continues his self-appointed task of tidying the Archives and molding order from the chaos. The Archivist grows increasingly irritable throughout the day, and there’s only so much chamomile tea Martin can shove in his face without being obvious.
“You’ve moved the desks,” the Archivist says on one of his rare forays out of the confines of his office. “Why?”
In truth, Martin had tired of the long, inscrutable looks the man cast at the empty desks. The Archives clearly hold too many memories for him, and not happy ones. But he can’t exactly say that, so instead he shrugs, hoping his boss can’t see the tremor in his hands.
“Thought we could use a change. You don’t, er. Mind, do you?”
The Archivist frowns. “No,” he says slowly. “I don’t mind.”
By the time the black car arrives to pick them up, the Archivist is a mass of nerves, tapping his foot frenetically and drumming his fingers across the leather seat. Martin doesn’t think he even knows he’s doing it. His anxiety is contagious, and soon Martin can’t even focus on the stupid mobile game he’s pulled up.
“He’s not—” Martin begins, swallowing. “He won’t...throw us off a building or anything, right?”
The Archivist snorts. “I should be so lucky,” he mutters under his breath. More loudly, he says, “No. They’re not allowed to do anything permanent.”
Martin bites his lip. “That’s...not reassuring.”
“If you want reassurance, you’ve come to the wrong place.” He sighs. “Look. He should leave you alone. You’re not part of the arrangement. I just need you to promise you won’t...interfere. Not unless I’m in immediate danger.”
“I. I don’t like this,” Martin confesses.
“I don’t either. But Elias wanted you to be here, so here you are.”
They spend the rest of the ride in silence. Eventually they pull up to a posh apartment building, the kind Martin could never afford. There’s a woman in a security uniform seated at a desk in the lobby, but she waves them in without a second glance. The Archivist walks to the elevator and pushes the button for the top floor. It’s a very long way up. They don’t look at each other.
The man who answers the door is...not at all what Martin expected. For one, he’s much smaller, with a slim frame, and his head barely comes up to Martin’s chest. Even the Archivist has a few inches on him. His hair is long and blond, pulled back to reveal the kind of face that could be thirty or fifty or anywhere in between. Beneath the collar of his shirt, Martin can just make out the pale lines of a scar.
Michael Crew smiles pleasantly. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Archivist! What a pleasure to see you.” His eyes rake over Martin’s frame quite shamelessly. “And who is this tall drink of water?”
“He’s not for you,” the Archivist says irritably. “Are you going to let us in?”
“You know how I feel about rudeness,” Crew chides, even as he steps aside and gestures for them to come in. The smell of ozone tickles Martin’s nostrils.
The first thing Martin notices are the windows. They’re everywhere, stretched from floor to ceiling. Everything in the flat is dark and smooth and modern, constantly drawing the eye back to the night sky.
“Do you like it?” Crew asks.
“It’s very...appropriate,” Martin says, drawing a chuckle from their host.
“I suppose you’re right. Tea?”
“Oh, um, thanks,” says Martin at the same time the Archivist says: “No,” and Crew smiles pleasantly.
“One tea and one misery, then. I think I’ll join you in that tea.”
He moves across to the open plan kitchen, so light on his feet he almost appears to float, and fills a kettle under the tap. It’s one of the fancy glass ones with a blue light inside when he switches it on. The Archivist lingers near the door, looking annoyed and impatient, while Crew busies himself fetching cups—also glass—and tea bags from the cupboards. For want of anything else to do, Martin finds himself watching the kettle as the water inside starts to bubble and roil. It’s pretty, and the blue light shining up from below tricks the eye, makes the small container of water look somehow deeper. The longer he looks at it, the deeper it seems to grow, until he feels as if he could fall into it and sink and sink forever—
“Stop that!” the Archivist snaps, and though his hand is grasping Martin’s shoulder, his glare is directed at Crew. The man chuckles, and pours boiling water over the tea bags in two cups.
“Just a bit of fun. Milk?”
Martin nods wordlessly; he feels a bit dizzy. He realizes that the Archivist’s hand is on his shoulder at apparently the same time the other man does, and snatches it away. Crew strolls across with two cups in hand, and offers him one.
“Feel free to have a seat,” he says. Martin glances at the Archivist, who stays standing rigidly nearby.
“I’m all right, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Crew shrugs, and drinks some tea. Martin does the same, but there’s an odd taste to it that reminds him a bit of chlorine. He holds his cup politely.
“So how do you enjoy working at the Institute, considering the...staff turnover?” Crew asks, his eyes still on Martin.
“You don’t have to answer that,” says the Archivist. Crew shoots him an irritated glance.
“I’m just making conversation. You may have refused my generous offer, Archivist, but some people are interested in broadening their horizons.” He returns his attention to Martin. “Have you ever given any thought to other career opportunities?”
“I, uh—” Crew’s tone is pleasant, but there’s a prickling up Martin’s spine that feels like walking along the edge of a cliff.
“Come on, let’s just get this over with,” the Archivist interrupts.
“Oh, Archivist,” Crew tuts, setting his tea down on the counter. “I’m starting to think you want me to punish you. On your knees, then.”
To Martin’s shock, he folds gracefully to the floor, still scowling. Crew circles him like a cat stalking its prey. The Archivist’s eyes stay fixed straight ahead, though Martin can see him straining not to turn to look.
“I think you owe me an apology, Archivist,” Crew says, placing a hand on his head, lightly stroking. “I’ve opened my home to you and your little friend, offered you my hospitality, and yet you insist on being rude. Why is that?”
When the Archivist doesn’t answer, Crew grabs a handful of hair and yanks his head back. Martin’s fists clench at his side, but he remembers the warning. Don’t interfere.
“Can’t make it too easy for you,” the Archivist says, staring up at Crew. His face is expressionless, but Martin can see how fast he’s breathing.
Crew relaxes his grip, moving to stroke the man’s cheek.
“Too easy for me, Archivist? Or for yourself?”
Martin can’t describe what happens next. One moment, they’re in the flat, safely enclosed behind four walls; the next, there’s nothing but open air around them. Martin falls to his knees with a low cry, his tea cup spinning across the floor, gripping the carpet with both hands as if it can stop him from falling. The air whips around them, drowning out everything but Crew’s voice, which is as soft as before but somehow cuts through the wind.
“Open up, now. There’s a good Archivist.”
Martin raises his gaze from the floor to see Crew stripping off, one layer at a time. The scar is enormous, branching white lines covering every part of his body. A Lichentenberg figure, Martin realizes. Standing over them, wind whipping his pale hair, Crew looks like a demigod, a manifestation of storms made flesh. The Archivist kneels before him, an unwilling supplicant, as Crew feeds him his cock. Even flaccid, it’s intimidatingly large, and scarred like the rest of him.
“You know what to do,” Crew says, not unkindly, and the Archivist rolls his eyes but obeys, moving to take more into his mouth.
Martin’s brain screeches to a halt. The Archivist has always seemed like he’s... above things like that. Like he has no more bodily urges than a marble statue. Like he would never submit to something so base. Not like Martin. But his lips are sliding up and down Crew’s dick, which is starting to harden in his mouth, and judging by the noises Crew’s making, he knows what he’s doing.
Thunder crashes in the distance, followed by a streak of lightning across the dark sky, and Martin cries out, huddled against the floor. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to take cover. All he can do is stay and watch.
Crew laughs, thrusting deeper into the Archivist’s mouth.
“You don’t have to be afraid, lovely boy. You could be a part of this.”
The Archivist gags around his cock, swallowing hard, and Crew pets his hair before pushing in to the hilt.
“The Vast has room for you, Martin. Your little Archivist doesn’t appreciate you, but we would. It would be so. Perfect.” He pulls out, and the man gasps for air, clutching his hips for support.
Crew snaps his fingers, and the Archivist’s mouth opens in a silent scream. Crew smirks and grips his hair, thrusting back into his open throat.
“Jon!” Martin cries, moving to stop him, but the man raises a hand, warding him off. “Wh-what are you doing to him?”
“I’m letting him fall,” Crew says, grinding against Jon’s face. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Physically, he’s here, but his body is convinced it’s in freefall. Terminal velocity. Can’t breathe at those speeds. Can’t do anything but fall.”
Jon’s face turns pale, and then red, until Crew finally pulls back enough for him to gasp for air. Crew rubs his cock over Jon’s lips and cheeks, leaving smears of precome on his face. After a few moments, Crew pulls him by the hair, forcing him back onto his cock.
“Do you ever imagine doing this, Martin? Putting him into his place, I mean. He certainly deserves it, with how he treats everyone. Wouldn’t he look good kneeling at your feet?”
Martin wants to look away, but he sees every detail: the spasming of Jon’s throat, the tears gathering in his eyes. The redness of his lips stretched around Crew’s cock. Martin tries not to imagine Jon swallowing his strap-on, eyes fixed on Martin’s face as he gratefully sucks. Shit. So much for that. He squeezes his thighs together, willing away the twisted arousal building in his abdomen.
“Or maybe you prefer more of a challenge. Perhaps you’d prefer to be bent over someplace like le Tour Montparnasse. I’d fuck you right over the edge, and if you were very good, maybe I wouldn’t let you go.” Crew smiles at Martin, still fucking Jon’s throat with measured, even thrusts.
“You wouldn’t die if I let go. No, I wouldn’t do that to you. I’d give you to my god instead. Imagine: falling and falling forever. Nothing to hold on to. Nothing to hold you back. Just the infinite void of the sky howling around you.”
Crew moans, picking up his pace, as Jon struggles to keep up. “I think you’d be a good boy, though. I don’t think I’d have to punish you like our Archivist here. No, I think I’d take my time with you, eat you out until you were good and wet and ready for me, and then take you as we fell together, and our god took your screams as tribute. You’d come with the wind in your hair, lightning kissing your skin, while I fucked you through the fear, until you felt only peace. You’d be changed, afterward. Like me.”
Martin can’t help but picture it: the endless sensation of falling, with nothing but Crew to cling to, filling his body even as they both fell and fell and fell. The person who came out the other side wouldn’t be Martin, exactly. But he wouldn’t know fear.
Finally Crew stiffens, pulling back to paint Jon’s face with ropes of pearly come, leaving Jon gasping and panting for air. Crew flops down onto the sofa, heedless of his own nudity, and offers Jon a tea towel. The windows are back, and the walls, safely caging them from the night sky. Martin stares at them, half afraid they’ll disappear. After a moment, he remembers he’s kneeling, and stands on shaking legs.
“I can return the favor if you like, Archivist,” Crew offers.
“That won’t be necessary,” Jon says, swiping at his face with the towel. “Will that be all?”
Crew sighs. “I suppose. You know the way out.”
Jon rises to his feet, walking out without a single look behind him.