Martin didn't really sleep last night. His neck and back have been sore for days and sleeping just made it worse, which really isn't fair. The broken springs in his mattress always seem to dig in no matter how he lies down and at this point a bed of nails might be more comfortable.
Stretching out and hearing all his joints pop and crunch is only only a temporary relief. He still can't turn his head more than fifteen degrees to the left without a blinding pain in his neck that's managed to radiate up to his eye-socket. Martin lifts his hand to rub at his neck for what must be the twentieth time this morning. The vertebrae crunch as he pushes fingers against them. It helps a little, but his shoulders are going to get sore if he keeps it up.
"Sore neck?" Peter asks. "You've been rubbing at it all morning."
"Sore everything." Martin replies. "I think my mattress is reaching its expiration date." It would be a nice world if he could afford to replace it.
"Please tell me you at least have a double." Peter has a wry grin.
"I do, I do." Martin replies as he contorts his way into a satisfying stretch that hurts just right.
"Do you want some help? I have good hands." Peter suddenly stood behind him.
There are cool hands on his neck before Martin can tell him no. Peter digs his thumbs in and the pleasure-pain is so intense it has Martin groaning. He knows he shouldn't let Peter do this, but it feels too good to tell him to stop.
"You're really holding a lot of tension here, Martin," Peter says softly, so closely that Martin can feel the brush of his lips on the rim of his ear, "I should help you relax more often."
Peter kneads his hands along Martin's shoulders, finding and rubbing away all the knots in the muscle. His fingers jab painfully into that most tender bit on the left of Martin's neck and all he can do is whine as Peter assails him.
He keeps working on it until the pain reaches breaking point and the tense line of muscle turns supple. It still aches, but the soreness is the tired good kind rather than the angry aching knots of before. Peter's hands are a cool balm that loosen hot and tight muscle and Martin sighs as all the tension slips away.
"You do make some very pretty noises." Peter tells him, and Martin's mouth slams shut.
He can't get it to stay that way. Peter finds another sore spot and the way he rubs the knot away has Martin moaning again. When the last sore spot in his neck and back is dealt with, Peter circles back to where he's already made Martin loose and boneless and rubs in gentle, comforting circles. "Anywhere else?" Peter asks.
"My lower back, too."
"I can't get to that with you in this chair." Peter says. "You'll have to stand up."
Martin stands without a second thought. Peter really wasn't lying when he said he was good with his hands. This is worth the embarrassment of letting Peter hear him moan like a porn star. The chair brushes behind his knees as Peter kicks it out of the way.
A single finger trails down his spine.
"Here?" Martin shakes his head.
"Here?" A few inches lower, but not low enough.
"Here?" Peter asks a third time right over the sore spot.
"There." Martin hisses.
He waits for the press of Peter's thumbs, for the unravelling he seems so adept at. Instead, there's a hand between his shoulder blades and it pushes him gently down, down until he's bent over with his arms bracing on the desk. Peter steps in close behind him, until Martin can feel Peter brushing the backs of his legs. They're in the same position Peter would need to, well-
Martin feels his face turn a few degrees closer to scarlet than it already was.
Then Peter's fingers dig into his back right where he needs them and Martin's arms go so weak that he nearly falls onto the desk. He makes quick work of that knot, then moves to the not so desperate areas around Martin's hips. The bits Martin hadn't even realized were sore.
Peter pulls Martin's shirt from where it was tucked in with a rough tug, then bare skin is skating over bare skin. Those clever hands go back to work on him, smoothing out the last inches of tension in a way that leaves Martin panting and flopped bonelessly over his desk. The massage has got him feeling like an unraveled string, and Martin's still not sure if he wants it to stop.
The hands go lower, to a part of him that definitely isn't his back. Martin never mentioned anything about a sore ass, doesn't have a sore ass, but that doesn't stop Peter from massaging it, from spreading lower to his thighs, nudging Martin's legs apart just a little. Peter's hands move back up and spread his cheeks apart, and even through a layer of denim and a layer of cotton Martin feels very exposed.
"Did you have something a little different in mind the first time you imagined me bending you over a desk?" Peter asks with him held open like that.
Martin chokes on a groan, unsure if he should be spluttering or not.
"Fuck me..." Martin mutters to himself, half at Peter's comment, and half at the way Peter drags one of his digits down the space between his cheeks.
"Is that a serious offer?" Peter asks, and there's no teasing in his voice. Peter takes another half step in, until they're properly hip to hip. The hard line of Peter's cock aligns perfectly with his crack. His hands are white hot brands on Martin's hips as he encourages Martin to press back into him. He doesn't get a chance to answer. Peter pulls him round and one minute he's staring at the pot of pens on the desk, and the next his ass is sliding off it and he's looking up at Peter standing between his legs. There's no more preamble. Peter leans down and takes Martin's mouth, swallows the needy little whine that slips out.
Peter's tongue is in his mouth, and his hand is still nestled into the small of Martin's back, encouraging him to crowd closer until Martin slings his legs around Peter's hips. Martin feels boneless, feels rubbery, and can only mewl as Peter grinds their hips together.
The blood rushes southwards so quickly Martin would like to blame it for how dizzy he feels as his fingers drag down Peter's cheek. His toes curl at the movement of Peter's hips against his. Martin ends up hard at a frankly embarrassing speed.
Would he even mind if Peter pushed him to his knees right now? Could he do anything but accept if Peter dragged a thumb across Martin's swollen lips before undoing his fly and pressing the head of his cock to Martin's lips? He's not even sure he wants Peter like that, but the blessed relief of being pain free for the first time in weeks is enough to blur all of that away.
If Peter wants kisses as thank yous, he can have them. Martin's used to that by now.
(This is more than a kiss though. Martin's feeling things being pushed against him that indicate things far beyond a kiss.)
Peter's mouth travels down his jaw, bites at his neck, and the pressure of teeth there should remind him of a predator, but all Martin can do is claw at Peter's back. There are hands up his shirt - one at the back and another rubbing against a nipple. Martin's hips jerk in that heady terrible grind.
There's a knock at the door.
It comes a second time, insistent. The person on the other side calls out a greeting. It's a woman, although Martin can't place the voice, so it's not someone from the front desk or the Archives.
Peter is a ghost against him, gone from view although Martin feels the physical bulk of him melting away like mist. Then he's alone.
Martin clambers off his desk and back into his chair, unsure if this is a curse or the answer to an unspoken prayer. Was stopping something he'd been subconsciously praying for? This kind of behavior really isn't like him. At least not without at least four units of alcohol in him first.
"Come in!" He calls back, trying to sound more authoritative than he feels and praying to a God he's not sure he believes in that the woman doesn't notice the tent in his pants.
