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“I’m sorry,” said Peter. “I think I misheard you, Martin. You won’t help save the world?”
Martin sighed, heavy and long-suffering. He was always short on patience when it came to Peter, and Peter had made little effort to alleviate that feeling. “No. Not unless you accept some consequences for the last few months of sneaking up on me, and withholding information, and making me do your job.”
Peter cocked an eyebrow. “So, nothing concerning anyone else? Just yourself?”
Martin could practically hear the cogs turning as Peter tried to figure out how best to manoeuvre this conversation into palatable territory, but Martin was better at this than Peter could ever hope to be. A man who had spent years sequestering himself on a ship was never going to be a master manipulator.
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” said Martin, dismissive. “Don’t change the subject.”
"Very well," said Peter, a delicate furrow appearing on his brow as he considered his next words. “I'm sorry if I haven’t been an... agreeable boss to work under. If it would help, I could increase your salary?”
Martin scoffed. “That wouldn't be you facing consequences. That would just be you throwing money at your problems.”
“Technically, it would be your problems I’d be throwing money at. I’m sure you could use it." A pause. "Well, perhaps it would have been more useful earlier, when your mother was still around to-” Martin interrupted him. He knew what Peter was trying to do and he wasn’t going to give him the chance.
“I don't care, Peter. I don’t want to hear it.”
Peter’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “That’s evident enough," he said. "In any case, money wouldn’t be much help if you’re opting to end the world.”
“No,” said Martin. “That’s what you’re doing. All you have to do is accept some consequences for your actions and then I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want me to.” He crossed his arms over his chest in a show of resolve. "That's my requirement. If it's too much for you, then I guess the 'dynamic duo' is done."
There was a touch of unease to Peter’s expression now, perhaps a dawning realization he wasn’t going to be able to talk Martin out of this after all. “Saving the world just seems like an odd thing to give a qualifier, Martin. I-I mean, it is the end of the world.”
It was gratifying to hear such uncertainty in Peter's voice. Martin knew that beneath Peter's artificial pleasantness; beneath the polite, professional veil that let him maintain a comfortable distance from anyone he was speaking to, Peter was just a spoilt little rich boy that had never grown up, and he didn’t know how to court situations where the balance of power was tipped. Such as this one.
He knew Peter needed him. He didn’t know what for, exactly - he didn’t trust the man's claims, nor those made by his creepy little friend - but Peter needed him, and that gave him the unique position of actually having some leverage.
“I won’t come back from whatever you've planned, and I'm fine with that. But I’m not going to face that knowing I let you treat me horribly for months without doing anything about it.” Martin paused to let those words sink in before he continued. “So this is it, Peter. This is the only thing I’m going to ask for before I help you stop the Extinction. And you know what? You should be glad, because I never would have asked this before you got to me."
Peter did not look glad. The furrow on his brow had deepened. “I suppose I can... accommodate that,” he said with about as much enthusiasm as someone being asked what type of noose they wanted on their way to the gallows. “What sort of consequences were you after?”
Martin had to brace himself before saying his chosen penance out loud. He’d mulled it over considerably before making his demand, but the words still stuck somewhat in his mouth. “I want to spank you.”
“I-” Peter seemed at a loss for words. He stared at Martin, mouth slightly agape.
Martin allowed the silence to hang heavy between them. It was a very, very long time before Peter finally mustered up a response. “Is that a euphemism for something else?”
“No,” said Martin. “It’s exactly what you’re thinking.”
“Oh.” Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other in a clear display of discomfort. “Don’t you think I’m a little too old for that?”
“Not really,” said Martin, and Peter looked affronted.
“Martin, I’m older than you.”
Older did not necessarily mean mature, and Peter was the poster boy for that. The level of exasperation he engendered in Martin on a daily basis made him feel like he was herding a toddler. He'd had to explain basic concepts of self-restraint and admonish Peter for sneaking up on people (mostly Martin, which apparently hadn't gotten any less funny after the first dozen times he'd done it), and much like a child, Peter didn't seem to know how to keep on topic for longer than five minutes. It was infuriating to have to deal with a grown man who'd gotten his way so often that he didn't know how to act his age.
A spanking was perfect for him.
“I don’t care,” he said, tone firm. “You either let me or you can find someone else to help you with the Extinction."
“I could do that,” said Peter.
Martin regarded him coolly. “You said I was the only one who could do this. The only one who could maintain the balance.”
“-And you are. You're the only one who can do anything in a timely manner, and surely you don’t want to leave this longer than...” Peter trailed off as he gazed at Martin’s impassive face, his own beginning to droop in a way Martin had never seen before. Peter always looked perpetually cheery, and now he was all worry-lines and tension, his regal face twisting (Martin could practically see the old money in that sloped aquiline nose and those high cheek bones).
“Are you sure there isn’t anything else you would prefer?” asked Peter in one last ditch effort to wiggle free.
Martin shook his head. “That’s all. That’s all I want.”
“Right.”
Peter dithered for a few minutes longer before his shoulders sloped forward in resignation. It was a very, very satisfying sight. Sort of like Elias in handcuffs, but- better, maybe, because Martin hadn’t been mentally assailed immediately beforehand.
“Right,” said Peter again, then he sighed. “How would you like to do this?”
“You’ll want to lock the door first,” said Martin, pushing his chair out from under his desk and leaning down to pull on the brake lever. “You wouldn’t want anyone walking in on this, right?” Neither would Martin, for that matter.
Peter's jaw clenched a few times before he turned and stiffly did as Martin instructed. When Peter returned, Martin was leaned back in the chair with his legs splayed and hands braced on his thighs. He was oddly calm about this. Considering how much Peter still intimidated him, he’d expected there to be more tension, more fear, which was the standard response to Peter’s company for most anyone, but instead he was... giddy. He looked at Peter, who was all tense and miserable, just like Martin had been for months, and he was giddy.
“The coat is going to be in the way,” he said, and Peter removed it in slow, stilted movements. Once it was off, Peter folded it into a neat square and set it on the desk, glancing at Martin for further instructions.
“Come over here.”
Peter did, albeit not quite as fast as Martin would have liked. His heels dragged. When he came to stand just a foot shy of Martin, Martin was close enough to see he still had functioning facial capillaries despite often having the pallor of a corpse: his entire face was pink. He was surprisingly unimpressive under that coat of his as well, much less imposing than Martin had always thought. Small and gaunt. A wisp of a man. Appropriate of a Lukas, really; they were rather like spectres, long-dead in many ways and possessing a presence that was fleeting and harkened misfortune.
He grabbed Peter’s wrist and drew Peter over his lap. The man fell into place with a gasp that was oddly pleasant to Martin’s ears. He felt Peter grab instinctively at one of the legs of the chair, but it was a roller chair, so it wasn’t going to provide him as much stability as a standard chair would have.
For a moment, Martin leant back in the chair to marvel at just how far he’d gotten through sheer gall. Peter Lukas draped over his lap, ass up, awaiting the firm clap of his hand. He looked good like this. Far more tolerable. His body was cold beneath Martin, radiating a preternatural chill, and Martin was looking forward to localizing some warmth on his ass and thighs.
“Martin,” said Peter, his breaths soft and short. Martin couldn’t tell if it was the position causing his rapid breathing or if he was just that apprehensive about what was about to happen. “How long will this take?”
“I don’t know,” said Martin. “I guess we’ll see.”
The line of Peter’s shoulders visibly tensed. Not having a defined end was clearly unsettling for him, and Martin had to smile at that. He lay an arm over Peter’s back to keep him in place, just over the small of his spine, and relished the way Peter jerked in response. If that much startled him, he wasn’t going to be able to take the actual spanking with much poise.
He carefully tucked the ends of Peter’s jacket and vest out of the way and watched the muscles in Peter’s legs tense and shift with each brush of contact. Absently, he thought Peter had some of the nicest, most form-fitting trousers he’d ever seen on someone. He really did dress like a person whose family was rich enough to co-own a space station. Martin couldn’t even begin to guess how much money would be needed for such a venture.
He raised his hand and let it hover, listening to Peter’s rapid breathing fill the silence, then brought it down hard and sharp on the middle of Peter’s ass. The man jerked in a way that was almost comically violent, and Martin nearly laughed. “Ow,” Peter said plaintively, his head dipping low between his shoulders.
“It wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it didn’t hurt, Peter.”
“I know that,” said Peter irritably. “Just get on with it.”
Martin did as requested and applied three quick swats to each cheek, seizing Peter by the back of the jacket to prevent him from wiggling off his thighs when he reflexively tried to escape the sting of Martin’s palm. It occurred to him, then, that the man must have never been hit before, for any reason. His pain threshold was abysmal. He was clearly trying to take his punishment with his composure intact, grunting and gritting his teeth through each strike, but he was having limited success, and Martin didn't expect it would be difficult to get it to crumple.
He raised his hand above his shoulder and brought it down with a crack that prompted Peter to jerk in place.
“That hurt!” Peter snapped, twisting as best he could on Martin’s lap to cast him a glare.
“It’s supposed to,” said Martin, just barely reigning in a laugh. “I just told you that.”
“But you did it harder than the other ones,” said Peter miserably.
“Stop whining, Peter,” said Martin, despite the fact he was quite enjoying Peter’s whining. “I can’t keep them all the same speed and I shouldn’t have to.”
Peter huffed a breath through clenched teeth and resumed his slump over Martin's legs. The tips of his ears were bright red. “Fine,” he said.
Martin maintained the same hard velocity through his next eight strikes, applying the first four to the seat of Peter’s trousers and the last four over the fleshiest part of his thighs. Peter gasped and grunted his way through each one, and Martin ended up needing to lift a knee to jar Peter back into place when he began to squirm. “Stop moving or this is going to take all day.”
“I can’t,” Peter whined. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”
If he couldn’t keep still, Martin would just have to keep him still himself. “Give me one of your arms.”
Peter didn’t actually offer his arm when Martin reached down, but he grabbed the one hanging away from him regardless, folding it against Peter's back and pinning it firmly in place by threading their fingers. Peter’s gloves were on, cool and soft and buttery smooth against his palm, but the hold felt... oddly intimate regardless, and judging by Peter’s shudder, he thought so too.
In fact, this entire situation was intimate, and this was not a great time to be recognizing that. It was even less a great time to be recognizing that he didn’t mind that. Peter was an attractive man, even with the fine white hairs congregating at his temple and the lines under his eyes, betraying his age. Someone like Peter wouldn't normally be in his purview, but it was difficult not to notice his... assets when he was draped over Martin's lap like this.
He took a deep breath.
“Right, uh...” Focus. Focus. He rocked forward to measure how firm the position was and was satisfied to find that Peter barely moved at all.
Peter’s fingers flexed against his as he raised his hand. He set a number – twenty; a nice round number – and got to work. In the quiet of the room, each slap to Peter’s ass sounded like a thunderclap, and Peter reacted as though struck by one too, hissing and shuddering and twisting in Martin’s grip. The noises were having an impact on Martin that Martin tried very hard to ignore. At this point, though, it was hard to deny that he was enjoying this for more than just the satisfaction of punishing the second worst boss he’d ever had.
His hand ached faintly when he was done, but Peter was trembling, and that made it worth it. He flexed his fingers to disperse any stiffness and hoisted Peter’s hips up by a leg to reach under him. After all, he couldn’t spend this entire punishment applying his hand to fabric (and he tried to pretend he wasn’t at all excited by the prospect of touching Peter’s bare skin).
“What-?” Peter began, confused. Martin was quick to cut over him.
“I’m moving these out of the way now.” He thumbed open Peter’s fly and pulled down his zipper. “That was just the warmup.”
Peter groaned. “This is demeaning enough as it is.”
“More demeaning than that time you startled me into dropping your coffee and then made me prepare you a new one? Or how about the time you sent away the only person in the Institute with access to an essential admin account and I had to run around fixing that mess?”
“...Well. Hm.”
The trousers were down around Peter’s thighs in short order, and after some hesitation, Martin pulled his underwear down as well, unveiling the pinkened flesh of Peter’s backside. For such a waifish man, he was surprisingly well-endowed in that area and it was a far more captivating sight than it should have been. Martin swallowed, the saliva suddenly thick in his mouth. When he laid his hand over Peter’s ass, he could feel the warmth of his work radiating through Peter’s skin. At this rate he was going to end up tenting in his trousers and god forbid Peter notice something like that.
He fretted over whether to continue for all of a few seconds before Peter made his decision for him by saying, “Martin, I don't want to rush you, but you do have work to be getting to after this and we aren’t that far from the end of the workday.”
“I’ll stay behind,” he said, glacially cold. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Peter’s hand twitched in his. “I hope you don’t expect to be paid overtime for this.”
Martin scoffed. “I’ve never received any overtime payment,” he said, and proceeded to bring his hand down on the seat of Peter’s ass, turning whatever reply Peter might have had into a cry.
After the first strike, Martin fell into a steady, relentless rhythm, working his way across Peter’s backside and up and down his thighs, watching with fixed interest as the bone-white skin turned from a bright pink to a mottled red. The steady growth of colour was mesmerizing. So was the way Peter’s flesh moved under the impact of his hand, moulding around his palm before springing back into place. He wasn’t sure how many strikes he applied to Peter's skin before he lost count, but he didn’t need a number, anyway. This would end only when he was sure Peter was well and truly sorry.
His hand began to throb too much for him to continue at about the same point he heard Peter whimper. Frankly, he wouldn’t have thought the man even capable of such a sound, and it made him seem so soft, so human. It was almost enough to elicit sympathy in Martin. But this was a man who had casually thrown people into a fate worse than death over and over, sometimes for reasons as minor as ignoring his directives or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and no amount of whimpering was going to make Martin feel sorry for him. He’d earned this. He’d earned much worse than this, in fact, but Martin would have to content himself with some humiliating corporeal punishment.
When he stopped to grab a handful of Peter’s flesh, kneading it gently and marvelling at how soft and warm such a monster could be, Peter seemed to be too busy whimpering into his pant leg to pay the excessive contact any mind. The muscles in Peter's legs twitched involuntarily under his grip and parted just enough for Martin to catch a slither of Peter’s soft, pink sac. Heat engulfed his face and crotch so fast it was a miracle he didn’t spontaneously combust. He took a series of deep breaths to try to get himself back under control.
It took far more effort than it should have to tear his gaze away from the intimate parts of Peter and resume the spanking. The man was rocking with each one now, grasping at Martin’s leg with shaking hands and making the most delightful whimpering sounds. Fuck- if he didn’t end up masturbating to this when he got home, it would be a miracle. He was distantly mortified by the thought, but there was nothing like arousal to lower one's inhibitions. And a year of having Peter funnel apathy into him, of course.
His hand was starting to hurt again, so he paused, flexing the fingers, and shifted his legs in preparation to resume Peter’s punishment - only to freeze when Peter made a strange, choked-off noise and jerked his hips. This confused Martin until he registered the hardness pressed against his leg.
Peter was aroused too. A relieved little breath barrelled out of him. That felt like permission, somehow, and he adjusted his leg until Peter’s crotch was positioned directly over one of his thighs and tightened his hold on the hand enclosed in his.
“Last stretch, Peter,” he said. Peter didn’t respond beyond some incoherent, breathy noises.
He brought his hand down three times in quick succession and made a pointed effort to rock Peter into each one. The hot drag of Peter’s cock against his thigh left Martin’s own cock throbbing so hard it bordered on painful. If Peter noticed it, though, he gave no indication of it, and Martin didn't give any indication that he knew about Peter’s arousal either. From Peter’s perspective, Martin was probably just delivering a spanking and he was being the degenerate by getting hard over it.
He brought his hand down again, and again, rocking Peter’s arousal into his thigh with each stroke, and Peter’s breaths grew progressively more ragged. Partway through his assault, Peter’s hips began to twitch involuntarily, seeking further friction, and Martin continued reddening his ass as though nothing of consequence was occurring. His own cock felt rather like it would split open if it wasn’t addressed soon. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been this turned on in his life.
“Martin,” Peter ground out, sounding wonderfully pathetic. His thighs were twitching and trembling. “Please, a-are you al-ah-”
It took all the willpower he had not to do something embarrassing like moan when Peter abruptly jerked in his lap, shuddering all over, and let out a cry that was distinctly wet. So were the rest of the sounds he made when he fell pliant over Martin’s thighs, openly weeping now and taking hard, gasping breaths to try to counteract it. Martin continued the punishment for a few moments more just to give the impression he hadn’t noticed Peter orgasming in the middle of it.
“There,” he said, somewhat breathlessly. Peter sniffed. “I think that’ll do.”
“We’re done?” asked Peter, and the tears in his voice were so thick and appealing that Martin had to bite his lip. He never would have thought he could enjoy something like this so much.
“Just about,” he said as he settled a hand over Peter’s backside. “I’d like an apology too.”
“I already provided one,” said Peter wetly.
For that, Martin gave him another quick smack. Peter jerked in his lap, outright sobbing.
“I’m sorry!” he said, probably in a higher voice than he'd meant to. “Was that satisfactory? Are we done now?”
Martin sighed. “That’s too vague. What are you sorry for?”
He heard Peter sniff and wipe his eyes on the back of a sleeve. “For... not listening to you?”
“Good start. And?”
“Making you do my work on top of your own.”
“Uh-huh. What else?”
“Sending people away instead of finding a better resolution?”
Martin squeezed a handful of his ass absentmindedly. Peter flinched. “One more.”
“I’m- I’m sorry I didn’t give you information in... what you saw as a timely manner.”
Martin pressed his lips together. “I suppose I’ll allow that.” Still, he applied one last smack to Peter before allowing the man to tearfully get to his feet.
Martin stared openly at Peter’s face as Peter awkwardly did up his trousers. It was pink and tear-streaked and his pale blue eyes were wide and red-rimmed. His hair had become dishevelled and hung low over his face, sticking to his forehead. If Martin hadn’t already been ragingly hard, that definitely would have stirred him a little. He tried not to look noticeably intrigued as Peter sniffed and several thick, salty tears slid down the handsome slope of his cheek and dripped off his chin. He was suddenly assailed with the image of Peter’s pink lips stretched around his cock and his heart pounded so hard and fast that he thought it might asphyxiate him.
“So,” said Peter, wiping his face on a forearm. “You will be accompanying me to deal with the Extinction?”
So fast to get back to business. Martin supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything less from a Lonely avatar.
“I did say I would,” said Martin, his heartbeat calming with each word. “You get the map, and I’ll just... show up.”
“Good,” said Peter.
Martin thought this as good a time as any to bring attention to Peter’s state. He couldn’t not bring it up as one last bruise to the man's ego. “Um, by the way...” He feigned surprise as he tracked his eyes down to the wet patch on the front of Peter’s trousers. “Did you have an accident?”
Peter’s face contorted. “What? No,” he said hotly, jerking a corner of his jacket as far over his crotch as he could.
“It’s okay if you did,” said Martin, trying to be soothing instead of mocking, because he knew Peter would hate it. “You’ve probably never been spanked before, right? I'd be a lot for anyone. Here.” Standing out of his chair, Martin enveloped Peter in a warm hug, well aware that Peter would loathe every second of it. It felt surprisingly good to hold someone after so long. In his arms, Peter turned as rigid as a plank and jerked his head to the side, brushing tears onto Martin’s shoulder.
“Stop it.”
“Alright, sorry.” And just like that, Martin relinquished him, allowing him to retrieve his coat and hide all his trembling vulnerability beneath it. It almost scared Martin how much he liked seeing that. “I’ll... see you tomorrow, then," said Martin.
Peter didn’t offer a response before disappearing into the Lonely.
Once alone, Martin pushed his chair beneath the desk and hurried for the door, eager to get home and to a bed that seemed unusually hard and cold these days. It might be the last time he ever lay in it, but at least he could stroke himself to sleep with the sight of Peter flushed and wet and whimpering in his mind's eye. It was a better send-off than any other Peter could have offered him.