statement_ends | A Perfect Waste of Time

There is nothing to suggest that the number of Statements he might extract from the space beneath the Observatory is limited. From what they've gathered, there's far more to work with down there than a single box from the Institute could hold. He should be able to draw from that proverbial well for quite some time. But presuming that his problems have been decisively solved seems foolish, and he's still playing it safe. He visits only as often as he must (for that specific need, anyway; he still stops by for social calls lest Norah start feeling a bit used), and often draws multiple Statements per visit so he'll have tapes in reserve in case something should happen. He tells himself the reserves are for something like rubbish weather, as opposed to the far more upsetting possibility that he might head to the Observatory one day and find it gone.

Granted, it's not just vaguely superstitious caution that has him trying to limit his sojourns. He's started picking up on... something from Martin over the past few weeks. Something he can't quite pin down. It can't be anything as absurd as disapproval, and if it's concern, he can't imagine why. But he has been getting an odd, persistent impression that Martin isn't thrilled with his trips to 'the Ghost Hole,' necessary as they unquestionably are.

Said necessity is why he hasn't got up the nerve to poke the bear, yet. The prospect of them having some sort of spat over something they both know is indispensable is a little too ridiculous for him to go manifesting into reality. If Martin had a sincere concern, surely he'd air it without needing John to prompt him.

Maybe he's just imagining it. Or perhaps Martin is just... having an off day. Several off days. That just happen to coincide with his trips to the Observatory. Sure.

The weather today wasn't rubbish enough to justify staying home, but despite taking a cab for most of the journey, John still returns home with a wet coat and hair that's started to curl a bit from the rain. "Hullo," he says, both to Martin and to The Bishop, who trotted to the entryway to greet him before pulling up short and eyeing his dampened trouser legs with feline trepidation. He leaves his shoes on the mat, sets his bag on the floor, and shucks off his coat, giving Martin a slightly more assessing glance than he normally might. "I don't suppose the kettle's on?" he ventures, trying to gauge whether Martin's vaguely sour mood from this morning has improved in his absence.

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Martin would like to think he's not obvious; he'd like even more to think there is nothing to be obvious about. Certainly he couldn't be sulking, can't have been sulking for the past few hours and the last several days. That would be stupid. It would be appalling. It would be unspeakably selfish to sulk because — not because, but it evens out just the same — John is okay.

But he is certainly in a mood, and John knows it. It's obvious from nearly the moment he walks back in, the pointed mildness in his greeting and the lingering look Martin can feel on the back of his head as he stares at his book, not reading. The question doesn't help. Yes, Martin, go put the kettle on; all you're ever good for. A nasty, uncharitable thought, but it carries him through setting his book aside, getting to his feet, and proceeding wordlessly to the kitchen where he fills the kettle, sets it on the burner, and stands there to watch it. He's being ridiculous, and he's obvious on top of it, and he wishes more than anything he could hide it better. Or that John wouldn't pick up on it anyway, somehow.

Even if achieving normalcy is out of reach, he still feels a subtle pressure to break the silence. So: "How was Norah," he says, failing to intone it as a question or to keep the slight frostiness out of his voice.

Well, as silences go, this one certainly qualifies as pointed. No improvement, then. He has to suppress a grimace as he bends to give the cat a brief scratch, bolstering himself to follow Martin into the kitchen. The way he finds him staring at the kettle isn't necessarily unusual, but Martin's tone is far from friendly when he asks after Norah.

"Fine," John answers after a beat of hesitation. He could elaborate, but it's not as if Martin is radiating sincere interest. He watches him for a moment, brow furrowed, far from eager to get into... whatever this is... but increasingly at a loss as to how to avoid it, or if he even should. And what's the alternative? Waiting for Martin to thaw on his own time? Or waiting for Martin to snap?

"She asked how you were," he says. Admittedly, she'd done so with only a little more enthusiasm than Martin has displayed, but that's not the point. Fixing him with a level look, John adds, "I wasn't sure what to tell her."

Martin can't quite catch the bitter scoff that slips out at that; then he shuts his eyes, trying to compose himself. He can't very well dig himself any deeper into this hole, but Christ, he can try to be a bit less of an arse. He already knows there's no getting out of this without some sort of discussion, despite his reluctance. The least he can do is not be awful about it.

The problem is he's not sure what alternative he has. He's sunk so deep into bitter resentment that he's not sure how to climb out. He's not even sure he could articulate the problem if it were put to him to try.

He stares at the kettle a moment longer, wishing he could reset this interaction. His shoulders slump slightly and he raises a hand to his face, pushing a breath out through his fingers.

"I'm sure she'll be relieved to know I'm fine," he mutters, then clicks his tongue and tries again: "She certainly doesn't need to worry about me, and..." Neither do you dies in his throat, because it's something the Lonely would have him say, and it would be an invitation for actual concern he doesn't want. "Look, it... it's stupid," he finally admits, and it comes out petulant, which is better than reproachful, for all it doesn't feel much better. He lets his hand drop and finally looks toward John, still not able to meet his eyes, like a bloody dog that's been caught misbehaving. "It's stupid and I don't want to talk about it but we're going to talk about it because we... talk about things." Said like it's the biggest burden imaginable. Christ, he's so bad at this.

Martin's resentful mutter of a response does nothing to allay John's concerns, and it also fails to offer any real clarity. Then Martin changes tack, visibly embarrassed, and John is abruptly reminded of his regression back in January. Like he's found an incriminating tape, or something, except that doesn't make any sense, either.

Christ, what is this about? Nervousness coils in his gut as he thinks back over the past few days, trying to remember anything that might qualify as a transgression on his part, 'stupid' or no. But everything's been normal — at least as far as he can recall — and despite Martin's evident mortification, he doesn't know how they're going to get past this if they don't talk about it like bloody adults.

"We do, yes," John replies. "When we need to. As it seems we do." He could add that it's a habit that Martin, in particular, insisted on cultivating, but they both already know that, and it would feel a little mean-spirited to belabor the point. Instead, he offers a cautious, "Would it, er... would it help if-if I... Asked?" It's not an offer John makes very often, not least of all because it's a crutch Martin rarely needs anymore. But Martin seems embarrassed enough that he might appreciate the shortcut. Then again, it's also possible that he'd prefer to have a bit more agency over what exactly comes out of his mouth.

"Oh god, no," Martin blurts with a brief surge of panic. Christ, he doesn't want to even think about that. But if he's not going to take that offer, then he needs to answer immediately. If nothing else, John deserves to be put at ease.

Martin breathes out in a soft, defeated gust and tries to get himself to look at John, though he can't get any closer than the vague direction of his shoulder, too embarrassed and too frustrated for anything as intimate as eye contact.

"I, I just..." He sighs, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders turn to more of a slump. "A little while ago I caught myself wishing that- that I hadn't been so useless, that I'd been the one to figure out how to... to deal with all this, like last time. Or even if I didn't figure it out, at least that it was down to something I could offer. I mean, like... telling you about myself, or... or the City giving me the box. I..." He feels himself blushing hotly, and he turns away, chewing his lip. "I wanted it to be me that fixed it, but I couldn't even help, and now... now it's all fine, and it's so incredibly selfish to be upset about it now, I'm well aware, but... It was just one of those thoughts I couldn't stop having once it started. That's all. It's just childish nonsense and I wish I could shut it off, but..."

He runs out of steam and shrugs wearily. It is a bit of a relief to have it out, in the end; he's only now realizing how tired he'd grown of being stuck in this unpleasant, ridiculous thought loop. Much as he hates having to admit to it, it is immediately better not to just be stuffing it down.

John presses his lips together at once, as if he needs to visually demonstrate that no compelling questions are forthcoming, and waits patiently for Martin to parcel out his explanation.

When it comes, it's... sort of heartbreaking, actually. It might technically qualify as childish, he supposes, if one wanted to be unkind about it. But to whatever extent that John doesn't want Martin shouldering full responsibility for his well-being, it has far more to do with not wanting Martin to feel miserably frustrated than it does with some lofty, logical awareness that obviously Martin can't be everything to him. Not least of all because... well, he very often is. They've always been a bit more codependent than average. Perhaps it's no surprise that he's having trouble gracefully accepting his ability to sit this one out.

"Oh," John says, tone and expression both softening as he takes a careful step towards him. Now that Martin's laid it all out, John feels a bit stupid for not guessing at it sooner. He'd been so busy being grateful for their elegant solution that he hadn't really considered the implications of its source. "I-I didn't know you felt that way. Though I suppose if I'd really thought about it, I..." he cuts himself off with a faint wince and a shake of his head. This isn't the time for mutual self-recrimination, and besides, he's not sure how comforting a notion it really is that perhaps he could've guessed at something that Martin clearly finds a bit humiliating.

Given said humiliation, he's wary of indulging his own desire to simply throw his arms around him. Maybe that would feel condescending. Instead, he adds, "But you've never been useless, Martin. I just..." he scratches the back of his neck with a sheepish exhale. "I guess I thought it was sort of nice that it didn't have to be your problem, or— or something you felt like you had to manage."

Which is its own kind of childish, really. Like they might more easily cosplay a normal couple if John could safely satisfy his darker appetites without Martin having to involve himself at all. Christ.

At first, Martin almost feels impatient with the attempted reassurance; he knows he's not actually useless, and so on. But impatience can't last. No matter how often he's told himself he's not useless and their relationship has never been about utility anyway, he never managed to actually take any comfort from it. Coming from John, it feels different; it finally is a little comforting.

Well, most of it. He can't help but wince a little at the idea that any of this was Martin's problem. The kettle starts to whine, and he switches the burner off with scarcely a glance, turning and finally looking at John, his whole demeanor relaxing at last.

"It's never felt like that to me," he says softly. "It's not a burden, it's... it's important to me. You're important. I'm so, so grateful you're okay, that matters more than anything, it was just... it was so hard watching you struggle and not being able to do anything to help. So I guess I started feeling like the relief wasn't mine, or... or something."

It had been agonizing, all those months watching John suffer, seeing the gradual uptick in hunger and stress that could not be alleviated. It would be insulting to imply it was in any way harder on Martin than it was on John, but nevertheless, that ache was something Martin hadn't quite allowed himself to feel until it was safe to feel it. And the solution was so... out of the blue, so far outside his expectations and wheelhouse, it was hard to find satisfaction in it. Suddenly having to let go of all that anxiety with no palpable resolution that he had any hand in took a greater toll than he'd realized.

Of course, he's not sure if he can articulate any of that better than his fumbling attempt so far. But he's also not sure he needs to. John probably understands just fine, and conversation now feels less important than the sudden, overwhelming desire for comfort. John had stepped closer, but hadn't made a move toward him beyond that, exercising a cautious respect for boundaries that now feels completely unnecessary. Martin closes the remaining distance, throwing his arms around John's middle and pulling him close with a soft huff.

The idea that Martin hasn't been offering meaningful help strikes John as a bit unfair — as if his struggles can be boiled down to just Statement-based supply and demand. Knowing that someone cares is important; knowing that he's accountable to someone he loves can easily make the difference between a night spent pacing around his own flat and a night spent prowling the city streets. None of it was comfortable or easy for him, and it clearly wasn't comfortable or easy for Martin, either. But Martin's help on this front has always run deeper than just a quelling personal anecdote.

He's weighing his phrasing when Martin steps forward and pulls him into a hug, and for a moment he abandons speech. His arms curl around Martin in turn, and he dips his head to press a kiss to Martin's crown. Any lingering chill from outside is banished by Martin's warmth, and John basks in it for a few more moments before he ventures to speak.

"I wouldn't say you didn't help, even if you weren't fixing everything," he murmurs into the soft weft of Martin's hair. "It helps that you care so much. It helps that I— that I don't want to disappoint you. It helps that you're here." He gives Martin's back a slow rub. "Maybe the solution wasn't your idea, but... I wouldn't have held out long enough for us to find it without you."

Then, his tone taking on the faintest hint of wry indignation, he adds, "And Christ, you've certainly earned your fair share of the relief." Things are better, more stable, than they've ever been; he shouldn't be the only one actually enjoying it.

Martin shuts his eyes as John answers his embrace in kind, the scent and weight and closeness of him offering a familiar stability that finally has Martin settling back into himself. Then John speaks, and Martin focuses on listening, on letting it sink in, on believing it. It doesn't feel like enough — it never feels like enough — but a deeper part of him knows that enough doesn't exist, that it's a lie he clings to that only serves the vestiges of his own self-loathing. John's right; he has helped, and their relationship is more grounding than any single solution can be. He just has to keep reminding himself of that.

He smiles faintly at John's last remark, and answers with a slight nod against his chest. "Okay," he says eventually, and breathes out, slow and audible. "Yeah."

He lets his hands pass slowly up and down John's back in a mirror of John's hands on him; he holds him a little closer as if reassuring himself that he's here, he's all right, he'll be all right. When he finally lets go, he pulls back, but not far, a little embarrassed but much more relaxed.

"I'm glad I... that I've been able to help," he says, slightly awkward but sincere. "And that you're okay." He meets John's eyes briefly before glancing back at the stove. Tea does sound good now, the subsequent sit-down even moreso. "H-how about that tea?"

He knows better than to assume that Martin is entirely convinced. Some truths take longer to internalize than others — if they can be fully internalized at all — and John is intimately familiar with the subtle gradations between acquiescence and acceptance. But this is enough for now: air cleared, tensions eased, the prospect of a cuppa that no longer feels fraught.

"Please," John replies, not without feeling. Martin's embrace has banished some of the chill, but none of the damp, and a hot beverage and some fresh clothes sound perfect. He leans in to press a kiss to Martin's temple, murmuring, "I'll be right back." Then, he gently extricates himself and heads for the bedroom, The Bishop trotting alongside and making the occasional bid to rub up against his shin.

It only takes him a minute or so to exchange his trousers for some dry joggers and his button-up for one of his loose jumpers (longer than it would have if he didn't need to navigate around a very insistent cat), and he wanders back out with The Bishop in his arms, feeling a great deal more comfortable. "All right?" he asks, pausing at the edge of the kitchen to see how Martin's getting on.

Martin's just finishing up preparation of their tea when John returns with the cat, both of them looking charmingly cozy. He gives John a quick smile before taking both mugs and guiding them over to the couch.

"Here we are," he says, setting John's mug down on the coffee table so he can get it after negotiating with The Bishop. He settles in beside them, taking a pensive sip of his own, quiet for a moment. He's not quite sure where to go from here, conversationally; it might be easy enough to share some gentle silence, but there is still something flitting around the periphery of his awareness, like something that didn't quite get settled with all the rest. It's without much thought that he eventually voices it.

"You and Norah don't... actually talk about me, do you?" Almost before he's even finished the question, he already regrets it. Christ, this is the last thing he needs to be prodding. He tries to hastily course correct: "I-I mean — Sorry, that's a stupid question. I'm sure you have much more interesting things to talk about." He frowns into his tea and takes another little sip before he can't quite help muttering, "Though what, I'm sure I don't know."

It's just as well that John's a bit preoccupied with his own tea when Martin puts his question: it gives him an excuse to not answer immediately, which gives Martin time to take a few bewilderingly hard turns, which leaves John with far more to chew on than either of them probably anticipated, and the tea is a useful prop to muck about with while he processes.

First, he blinks over the rim of his cup, riding out the initial burst of incredulity over the thought of Norah being inclined towards gossip, let alone gossip about Martin. It's a shame that the two of them have never really got on (and perhaps that excuses such a gross mischaracterization of Norah on Martin's part), but that generally translates to each of them only asking after the other to the extent that good manners would dictate. And even then, the lack of real interest is palpable. He wouldn't presume to natter about Martin to Norah anymore than the reverse — though Christ, perhaps he should, if only to correct some of these misconceptions before they can take root.

Martin dismisses his own question as 'stupid' before John can respond to it, though the backhanded self-deprecation strikes him as rather unfair. John takes a steadying sip of his own tea to prevent himself from responding a little too off the cuff, but his brows are drawn together in sharp disapproval. The uncomfortable truth of it is that Martin isn't an interesting topic of conversation to Norah, but that hardly translates to him being uninteresting as a rule, or uninteresting to John. If not for the awkward interlude in the kitchen (and even that was mostly about Martin's use as a bulwark against Statement withdrawal, not his overall value), he'd insist that they were well past that.

And perhaps they are, if Martin's final, muttered aside is anything to go by. John swallows his tea with conscious effort, eyes widening slightly as he considers this new piece of information, a square-shaped peg that doesn't quite fit in the round-shaped hole of Martin's usual anxieties. His tone was defensive, perhaps aiming for dismissive, but unable to stick the landing. John gets the distinct impression that Martin truly can't imagine what he and Norah might talk about, and that it bothers him for reasons that go beyond any niggling suspicion that they're talking about him. Maybe it's just that failure of imagination that troubles him — and John supposes that he, of all people, is in no position to fault someone for wanting to know something, even if it's technically none of his business. But this also doesn't feel like simple curiosity, not when Martin has been so stubbornly disinterested in actually getting to know Norah on his own.

He doesn't want to imagine that they talk about him. But he struggles to imagine what else they might talk about, because...?

There is a faint creak of fingers against ceramic glaze as a possibility occurs to him, but it is so outlandish that he cannot trust it, certainly not to the point of voicing it. Not on the basis of what little evidence he's gathered so far. But the thought is as tantalizing as it is completely fucking mental, and he has to lean hard away from the desire to simply Know. He doesn't want to do that to Martin; he has a long-standing policy of not Knowing how he feels. And there is also a small, preemptively giddy part of him that wants to earn this, if he's actually onto something.

John takes another sip of tea, then clears his throat. "I hadn't realized you were so interested," he says, light and faintly teasing. "Should I be recording that, too?"

All that hard-earned emotional stability he'd just found in the kitchen is already in danger of evaporating, and he has only himself to blame. It would have been so bloody simple to let them have a beat of shared silence, or at least to find something innocuous to dither about. The only thing that stops him feeling properly mortified — not to mention angry at his own lapse in reason — is the certainty John's about to offer him a way out with a change in subject rather than indulge more of his nonsense.

When John instead needles him further, it's a bit of a rude surprise, even if it's arguably deserved. Martin blinks, his shoulders tightening into an automatic defensive posture, and he stammers, "Wh- N-no, that's not what I — Don't be ridiculous." He feels himself blushing and realizes there's nowhere to hide, nestled here beside John on the couch. He stares down at his tea, half-wondering if he should attempt to spill it as some sort of diversion and not quite having the nerve. "Look, just forget it."

He'd expected some degree of stammering indignation; well deserved as it might be, he's still teasing. Specifically, he's teasing more than he might have otherwise, with the subject ostensibly put to bed and Martin already having suffered through his fair share of embarrassment. If being gracious was his only goal, he would've limited his response to a pointed look before changing the subject.

But he's discovered a hook so fascinating that he has no intention of letting Martin off of it just yet. It's the blush that convinces him, and John sets down his tea so he can give Martin his full attention, pivoting on the cushions to face him, an incredulous grin tugging at his lips.

"Martin," he says with considerable relish, elbow propped on the back of the couch and eyes bright with interest, "are you jealous?"

He doesn't understand why John is still pushing him, rather than letting him take his own clumsy exit, and there's a split second danger of genuine indignation as John turns fully toward him with acute, disarming intensity. And then comes that question, and Martin freezes, hit with such outright shock that his jaw actually does drop open.

"Wh—" Alarm bells are going off in the back of his head, and the worst of it is, he has no right to the surprise. If anything, he'd become far too complacent. It's just he'd been so certain that if this hadn't ever come up before, it never would. Because John's not a child, and neither is Martin, and no matter how obvious he is, his failure to get along with Norah is a mutual affair. So why would John ever think this? Why would he ever ask it?

"N-no!" he sputters, and opens his mouth as if expecting more indignant denial to come forward. His voice betrays him though, and he just sits there like an idiot, clutching his tea.

If John was grinning before, Martin's stammering attempt at a denial has him outright beaming. The Eye's gifts have done nothing to diminish the satisfaction of making a successful, old-fashioned guess. He's right! He still can't quite believe it, but he knows it's true, and he communicates as much with a wordless little 'ah!' and a triumphantly accusing point of his finger.

Edited Date: 2023-05-13 02:45 am (UTC)

Oh, god. This is the worst thing that's ever happened. Martin gapes at John, at his evident glee, and feels himself bristling like an angry cat as John actually points at him. He struggles to speak, to make the denials he ought to make, to leverage indignation and offense in the face of John's outlandish triumph.

But that's the problem. It's not outlandish at all.

"...Okay, maybe," he grits out a moment later, wondering if he can spin this like he hadn't realized it himself, before he finally crumples: "Fine. Fine. Yes. A bit." He stares at his tea, then knocks most of it back like it's a shot, setting the cup aside so he can better bury his face in his hands.

Martin's discomfort is so evident that John's own delight feels, distantly, a little perverse, but he can't help himself. He isn't even sure why this delights him so much (beyond the satisfaction of a well-placed guess and the sheer novelty of it all), but Martin's eventual, begrudging admission is rocketing him straight to cloud nine.

"Since when?" John asks, or starts to, but he hasn't even hit the final consonant before his own, human intuition once again provides the answer. Martin has always been a bit weird about Norah, stiff and standoffish for reasons John had never bothered to interrogate. But this new information provides fresh context for all that unfriendliness, and the answer spills out of him in an incredulous rush before he can even draw breath: "This whole time?"

This is appalling. This is the best.

Martin supposes he ought to be grateful that John isn't angry about this, or hurt, or any entirely rational response that would require a more serious conversation. There is some bewilderment, some slight hint that he is, distantly, aghast — but mostly he just seems delighted. Martin could count himself lucky that John is getting some kind of pleasure out of this, that this isn't turning into a row. Instead, he just feels a growing sense of flustered indignation. John isn't exactly trying to tease him — and on some level he knows he deserves the incredulity — but the delight is just too much to bear.

He can't even get his next question out before he's already answered it himself, and Christ, it was over two years ago that he met Norah the first time, her unexpected arrival at The Archive. He barely remembers it, except that she'd called him out for his nosiness and his over-protectiveness, and he'd expected John to confront him about it then but it hadn't happened. Only for it to come out now?

"Wh — Look, listen," Martin says a bit desperately, "She's just — You're always — You get on so well and I just—"

"We get on so well," John echoes, incredulity making way for something more like charmed appreciation, as if it's a particularly witty turn of phrase and not just an absurd excuse for Martin to feel romantically threatened. He could point out that he gets on well with plenty of people — or, if not 'plenty' in an objective sense, certainly more people than he could've boasted back home — but not to a point where Martin ought to-to watch his back, or something. John isn't interested in anyone else that way, and, more to the point, he's reasonably certain no one else is that sort of interested in him. This, he'd guess, is the true source of his ongoing elation: the inescapably flattering implication that anyone else in this city would actually have any interest in sniping him. Only Martin, with his rather unique propensity for seeing the best in him, would even dream of such a thing.

John feels such an overwhelming swell of fondness for this ridiculous man that he can't resist reaching for him, one hand lighting on his back and the other on his arm, the first suggestion of a proper embrace. He also can't resist continuing to tease a bit, because honestly. "Me and the incorporeal woman who's old enough to be my great-great-grandmother. You think she's going to... what, lock me in the Observatory and have her wicked way with me?" He starts giggling, unable to imagine even joking about such a thing with her. She'd lose all respect for him in a heartbeat.

Something even funnier occurs to him, and he guffaws outright. "Is it, is— sh-should we stop using the phrase 'ghost hole'?" he manages to gasp, so overcome with amusement that it's a struggle to squawk the words out. "T-too suggestive?" At that, he fully lurches over, head landing on Martin's shoulder as he continues to quake with laughter.

Far from taking John's playful encroachment with any grace, Martin stiffens in his arms, not projecting discomfort so much as irritation. Somewhere, he thinks, in some distant part of him, legitimate frustration is being quickly supplanted with histrionics, as though maintaining a bad attitude is now a point of pride. If he truly wanted John not to touch him, he'd pull away. But lingering embarrassment and the sunk-cost-conviction that he can't cede any ground prevents him from giving in completely, and he answers John's mirth with a determined scowl.

But before he can muster enough stubbornness to make any point about how her technical age has really got nothing to do with it — from what he's seen, she still reads as a young woman to him — John swerves into making childish entendres and collapses onto his shoulder, and Martin can only gawp at the wall beyond them before mustering a scandalized, "John!"

The worst thing of all is he has to admit it is pretty funny, and John's laughter has always been infectious, so it's with a slightly unsteady quiver that he grits out, "For Christ's sake."

Martin tolerates John's physical closeness with all the forgiving grace of a block of wood, which doesn't even surprise him, really. He's never teased Martin quite so mercilessly before — never been presented with an exposed nerve that also served as such a rich vein — and while his intentions aren't mean, that probably only counts for so much. Still, there's a telltale hitch in Martin's voice that belies the steadiness of his resolve. He can't stay grumpy forever. John tempers his laughter with some effort, but allows his arms to curl a little more decisively around him.

"Can't believe you were worried," he says, lifting his head and pressing a warm, only faintly giggly kiss to Martin's temple. "As if anyone else in this city would put up with me."

"Wh—hey," Martin says sharply, now resisting John's playful advances out of distracted indignation on his behalf rather than some vague sense of personal pride. He squirms a little, trying to put just enough distance between them to meet John's eyes. "First of all, I wasn't — I wasn't worried, I trust you, it's just—" He huffs impatiently, forcing himself to admit the painfully obvious: "It's not like it's rational. But sh-she obviously cares about you, and she's right to, and — and she would be so lucky!"

The idea that Norah, or anyone for that matter, wouldn't put up with John is enough to make him annoyed all over again. "Anyone would be," he insists rather aggressively.

Well, that's successfully got Martin out of his little sulk, though the exchange of one sort of indignation for another wasn't exactly what John had in mind. He's not entirely sure what he does have in mind, besides an instinctive (and perhaps ill-considered) urge to just keep kissing him, but he restrains himself in deference to Martin's squirming, and his continued parceling out of an explanation.

Said explanation really does nothing helpful for the urge to kiss him, and John's expression takes a turn for the hopelessly besotted. "Martin..." he starts, and then flounders for a beat. He wants to insist that Norah is plainly not attracted to him — he has a hard time imagining her being attracted to anyone, honestly, but it feels presumptuous to speculate about her proclivities, or to trust his own assumptions on the matter. At any rate, he's confident that if she had such inclinations, and considered them to be any of his business, he'd have been made aware by now. His ignorance, then, could be taken as evidence that it's really none of his concern.

But he's getting bogged down in the details, and he gives his head a small shake. "I suppose it's lucky that I'm madly in love with you, then," he murmurs, lifting his hand to Martin's cheek and leaning forward until their foreheads touch. "Though if you needed a little extra... reassurance," he adds, voice dropping to a purr, "I would be more than willing to oblige."

Martin stares into John's unabashedly sweet expression with something approaching defiance, as if daring John to argue with him over his own merits as a romantic partner, only to find John listing toward him, leaning even more pointedly into the suggestion of... of sensuality. This has all become completely ridiculous, but even still, he wasn't expecting this. Martin's mouth drops open and then snaps shut as he flounders for a moment, not quite pulling away, but still rather frozen in place.

"I—" he blurts, not even certain why he has any instinct to push back against this. Perhaps for the same reason that he refused to abandon his own sour mood: he's pretty sure he doesn't deserve to be let off the hook for all this, much less rewarded for it.

But that's too many words to get out just now. For a few beats he just stammers silently, then he finally manages a completely bewildered, "What?!"

Martin is no stranger to John's methods, and he thinks his intentions have been made clear enough to be getting on with. Still, he can see how this might be a bit surprising — emotionally speaking, Martin has a considerably larger pivot to make — so John summons the requisite patience to not simply push Martin back against the cushions. Christ, he wants nothing more than to treat him as magnificently as he knows how, to show him exactly how little it would matter if anyone else ever took a shine to him. If Martin insists on prizing John's attentions so highly, the least John can do is be generous with them.

He begins by bending to press a delicate kiss against Martin's jaw, his hand drifting back so he can gently curl his fingers in Martin's hair. "I think you know what I mean," he replies, still tucked close enough for his lips to brush against Martin's neck as he speaks.

The stiffness in Martin's body no longer has anything to do with embarrassment or ridiculous irritability; now, he is frozen as if the tiniest movement will shake them out of this reality and back onto a path he might've more easily anticipated. As if he might somehow startle John out of wanting to kiss him.

Resisting has absolutely no appeal, but simple acquiescence also lies just beyond his reach. Instead, a nearly imperceptible shiver runs through him as John's lips brush along his neck, and his lips part as if to answer with a little whine, like he ordinarily might. He can't muster a sound, but his breath trembles and his fingers flex as if he wants to reach out and doesn't quite dare.

"I—" He swallows thickly, his chin tipping up ever so slightly in what might be an attempt at a nod, or a half-conscious request. "I'm not sure I deserve that," he says, his voice dry, his tone teetering somewhere between facetious and wary.

Edited Date: 2023-05-14 05:44 am (UTC)

The quality of Martin's stillness changes, subtle but unmistakable, and then clarified by the bob of his throat as he swallows and the slight, suggestive lift of his chin. Still, it's not quite acquiescence. He insists, his tone unsteady but not entirely playful, that he doesn't deserve it.

What Martin may or may not deserve is beside the point. John has absolutely no desire to sit here and unpack all this, as if they haven't grown beyond the need to preemptively justify every single move they make lest either of them put a toe out of line (the worst of all possible disasters). He can't make out the shape of any real risk. He can't imagine Martin actually crafting some simple, stimulus-response connection between acting like a prat and getting 'rewarded' with a bit of fooling around on their couch, and concluding he should act like a prat more often.

He considers and rejects both a flippant 'I'm not sure I care' and a fervent 'you deserve everything,' neither of which serve his current purpose. Too open to argument. Instead, he blazes a slow trail from the juncture of Martin's neck and shoulder up towards his jawline, laying out his justifications in between kisses. "Let's compromise, then: you be the judge of what a catch I am, and I'll be the judge of what you deserve." He pauses long enough for a solicitous, "How does that sound?" before taking Martin's earlobe between his lips and sucking gently.

Martin sucks in a sharp breath which then catches in his chest as John kisses and murmurs his way up the line of his throat. The inane impulse to say something flustered and incredibly stupid like Wait dies on his lips, replaced by a soft moan that almost surprises him. Why it should be surprising is beyond him; as if John isn't now sucking on his ear. He still can't quite believe this is happening, but Christ, that in no way translates to wanting it to stop.

Because John is a catch; and what's more, John is his. Why the hell would he want to deny himself that, under any circumstances?

"O-okay," he manages to get out, breathless and quivering slightly, feeling himself list back a bit like he might actually topple over. His body finally seems to wake up, one hand going out to brace against the back of the couch and the other grasping onto John's shirt like he wants to pull him closer. Another layer of that silly, reflexive stubbornness that had been holding him back fractures, and he answers again, his voice shaky but still more decisive: "Yes."

That's more like it. Martin finally starts to relax, one hand reaching out to grip John's shirt front, and then pleasantly surprises him with some tremulous but decisive verbal agreement. John hums, the arm around Martin's shoulder dropping down to his back and drawing him closer.

He pulls back enough to meet Martin's gaze and murmur a low, satisfied, "Good." Then he leans in to kiss him properly, palm cradling the back of Martin's head as he slowly, inexorably bears him back towards the cushions.

Martin's breath catches as John's arm curls around his back, and a terribly soft squeak slips out as he lets himself be drawn in, his hand leaving the couch in favor of reaching up to John's shoulder, both hands curling loosely and rather coyly into his shirt. And almost immediately, he feels a surge of embarrassed self-recrimination: what right does he have to act so innocent now, when John's just caught him at his worst? Acting so delicate, painting himself in sweetness as if it wasn't a deeply sour revelation that led them here? The noises he makes are still largely involuntary, but over time, with John's encouragement, they have become easier and more automatic. This is the first time in a while that he's actually regretted one of them. That squeak was far too cute for what a little shit he was just being.

But John catches him before he can spiral, his low voice and the kiss that follows more than enough to drag Martin back into the moment. John's already made it clear that he wants to do this; Martin doesn't have to understand why, and doesn't really want to disrupt things long enough to find out. Enough unnecessary dithering. He isn't being demanding; he's following John's lead, because John wants to lead him, and it's ridiculous to pretend he doesn't want to be led, no matter what he thinks he deserves. So he relaxes a little more, his hands sliding up to frame John's face, his touch still delicate, tentative, wanting to leave room for John to redirect him if he so chooses. If John wants to have him, then Martin wants to offer himself, and he wants John to have him however he likes.

He lets himself be pushed back, gentle but firm, until his back meets the cushions and he gasps softly, breaking the kiss just long enough to whisper, "Please."

Edited Date: 2023-05-15 05:44 pm (UTC)

Martin's little squeak is darling, and the way he loosely grips his shirt is enough to leave John smiling against his lips. This is all he wants: to demonstrate just how little Martin ever need worry about the possibility of losing him to a romantic rival, of all things, and for Martin to let him demonstrate as much without sinking into the familiar rut of self-recrimination, or insisting he doesn't deserve it. As if it would really be better if John had found some way to punish him for being so head-over-heels in love with him that he can't help fretting that other people might be, too. John can't imagine that, and he doesn't want to. Not when he has this: Martin warm and pliant in his arms, against his lips, Martin's hands lighting so gently against his cheeks.

John slides his hand to Martin's side in lieu of leaving it pinned between him and the cushion, and he responds to that whispered plea with a low hum and another slow, ponderous kiss. He could easily escalate, guiding Martin down onto his back, but there are a few things he'd rather do, first. He allows himself another kiss, soft and brief, then draws back enough to look Martin in the eye. The hand that was in his hair drifts down, fingers still curled, the backs of his knuckles cresting over the curve of Martin's neck and the small swell of his collarbone. Then he hooks a finger over the top button of Martin's shirt, giving the garment a light, illustrative tug. "May I?"

Martin doesn't know what he was pleading for; he frequently doesn't, when often enough the plea itself is all that matters. John doesn't always need direction, and he never disappoints. Martin shivers as John's hands drift over him, the light passage of his knuckles down Martin's throat and the ridge of his collarbone. He tips his chin up again, a little further, equal parts impulse and invitation.

It's no surprise when John settles at the top button of his shirt, though Martin's breath still hitches over that suggestive little tug. It's easy enough to assume John plans to mark him, and will need to pull his collar aside for it; the question is both courteous and coy, and Martin is quick to answer it with a soft whine and an eager little nod.

John smiles in sly satisfaction, no longer anticipating much in the way of even performative resistance, but still pleased to see Martin's turn for the agreeable. He leans in for another slow kiss, dividing his focus between the sublime feeling of Martin's lips against his own, the subtle taste of that shotgunned mug of tea, and the necessary tedium of undoing Martin's buttons.

If his only intention was to mark Martin's neck, he'd only bother with one button, two at most — he knows, by now, that the ostensible convenience of having things out of the way is often far less interesting than the idea of Martin both looking and feeling a bit debauched — but it isn't just Martin's neck that he intends to access. So he continues on to the third button, making his distracted, slightly fumbling way down Martin's front as he tips his head to kiss along the line of Martin's jaw.

Martin slides down a little deeper against the cushions as John resumes kissing him. His eyes slip shut and he lets out a soft hum, pausing to hold his breath in anticipation as John reaches the second button... and then he keeps going. Martin blinks his eyes back open, but John's focus is elsewhere, moving on to kiss along his jaw. Martin hesitates for a moment, no longer certain where this is going. He hadn't expected John to go for the whole shirt — but then, that certainly isn't a problem. In fact, the moment he's recovered from that beat of surprise, Martin finds himself so overwhelmingly curious to see where this leads that he reaches out in an effort to assist, starting at the bottom of his shirt and working his way up. He has the arguable advantage of actually wearing the garment, but that's pretty well canceled out by the awkward position, his inability to see what he's doing, and the fact that John is very distracting in general.

"S-sorry," he says as he fumbles and disrupts John's focus a bit. Maybe he ought to just take over, he thinks, blushing slightly. "Here, just let me—"

Martin's hands fall away from John's shoulders and end up fiddling around in the vicinity of Martin's lap, a move so wholly inexplicable (in both timing and apparent presumption) that John leans back with a faint cough of wordless indignation to see just what Martin thinks he's playing at. When he realizes that the intention is actually to help with the shirt buttons, he lets out another huff, this one far more amused. For Christ's sake.

"—Help?" he fills in with all due incredulity, doggedly making his way down another button and leaning in to give Martin's neck a pointed nip. "I think I can manage a few buttons, Martin."

Martin isn't expecting the little nip to his neck, but what shocks him more than the sensation itself is that it's essentially a reprimand, a playful little warning shot across the bow of his presumption that he should be taking an active role in whatever John has planned. John is not above these sorts of taunts, but Martin at least usually knows when he's earning them. Getting it unexpectedly is... well, unexpectedly potent. He's so startled he doesn't even have the wherewithal to make a proper noise; he just gasps, sucking in a sharp breath, his hands going abruptly still and his heart beating a little faster.

"R-right," he says a moment later, flushed and slightly breathless, not exactly chastened so much as embarrassed to have reacted so strongly to something so mild. Really, acting contrite, as though John had earnestly meant to scold, doesn't even occur to him, and reacting with demure obedience doesn't appeal. He's still not sure what John's specific intentions are, and his curiosity on the subject has only sharpened, which hardly lends itself to obliging patience. Once he's recovered from the surprise, he eyes John with something approaching suspicion and says, "Suppose I just thought I could help you manage them faster."

John stills at Martin's rejoinder, eyes narrowing. Perhaps it wasn't meant as implicit criticism, but it's certainly easy to take it that way. If nothing else, it's awfully opinionated for someone whose dithering has contributed to any delays far more than John's measured approach to the buttons has done.

"Oh, is this too slow for you?" John asks, indignation folded into his disbelief as he draws back to give Martin an affronted look. He shifts his grip on Martin's shirt, one fist bunched on either side of the front placket. "Getting impatient, are we?" he asks, punctuating the adjective by giving the garment a sharp, decisive tug. It's not a move he's ever employed before, and he is distantly concerned that it either won't work or will work too well, scattering buttons throughout the living room for the cat to choke on later. But he only hears one button go clattering off across the coffee table, and he's certain he can retrieve it before The Bishop does.

"There," John says in breathless, huffy satisfaction. "Fuck's sake." Then, before Martin can speak, he lifts a hand to Martin's hair and snarls his fingers in a tight fist, tugging just enough to tip Martin's chin up a fraction. "Any other smart remarks?" he asks, his tone a little more measured and his expression considerably more haughty, though there's a pleased grin tugging at his lips. "Or may I continue my work?"

Martin meets John's initial show of indignation with a little smirk. It's not often this kind of teasing is mutual. He usually endeavors to be well-behaved, or at least good-natured. He's generally too mindful of how much John is indulging him to want to make even playful trouble. But given all that led them here, it feels more appropriate to test those waters just a little.

Any self-satisfaction is short-lived, however, replaced once again by mute surprise as John fists his hands into Martin's shirt, wiping the smirk right off his face. Martin blinks, suddenly attentive, his lips slightly parted and his muscles tensing in anticipation. It's remarkably effective even as a mere threat, but John does nothing by halves, and when he actually makes good on it, pulling Martin's shirt open sharply enough that a button pops off somewhere, it takes Martin out at the proverbial knees. He gasps again, his nerves jolting and a hot rush of adrenaline coursing through him, arousal very suddenly no longer an imminent suggestion but an active development. He has no time to react properly before John seizes him by the hair, tugging his head back by small, controlled degrees. Christ, he never thought John would actually do something like this, as if it were directly wrenched from some of his oldest daydreams.

He can't manage an answer at first, his throat too dry, his breath too short. He whimpers, first, his hands returning to their obediently idle positions at John's chest, not daring to grip, to do anything but wait. He's trembling a little, all but radiating desperation and desire, his earlier hesitancy and doubt entirely forgotten.

He meets John's eyes after sucking in a somewhat steadying breath, swallowing thickly, finding his voice. "O-of course," he says, soft and faltering. "Please."

That's more like it. Well, to a point — John had initially intended to strike more of an adoring tone than a playfully punitive one, and he's not entirely pleased with the turn things have taken. There's some consolation in how effective sterner treatment has turned out to be; it seems a safe bet that Martin no longer intends to gum up the works just because he can. But there's a considerable — and doubtless intentional — difference between accepting John's adoration and accepting a titillating punishment for bad behavior, and allowing his own intentions to be misconstrued for the sake of convenience (or expediency) feels a bit cheap. To say nothing of how badly it misses the point.

John considers Martin for a few lingering beats, his free hand tracing an idle path that begins at the hollow of Martin's throat and drifts down, skating lightly over the thinner fabric of his undershirt, until it reaches the vicinity of his navel and reverses course. He completes the round trip twice before flattening his palm against Martin's sternum. "Lie back," he orders, using both his grip on Martin's hair and the press of his hand against his chest to guide him into a more horizontal configuration, briefly pivoting off the cushions so Martin can draw his legs up without any awkward collisions.

Once Martin seems settled, John perches on the edge of the couch, curled close over him. "Comfortable?" he murmurs, bending to press a kiss against his throat.

Martin holds very still while John surveys him, helpless to do anything but wait, his belly hitching slightly under the soft passage of John's free hand, down, back up to his throat, down again. When John finally presses him back, Martin can't help letting out another tiny whimper even as he goes along pliantly. He wasn't expecting being made to wait, nor John's inescapable shift back to calm deliberation, but any notion of feistiness is gone from him now. He simply allows John to guide him until he's on his back, his arms gently inert at his sides, his eyes never once leaving John's.

He had thought he'd seen where this was going, had perhaps even influenced the trajectory toward something he could understand, that this would be a playful bit of comeuppance for his own outlandish presumptions. There is no steering John back from this, though, and he no longer even wants to. Some remote part of him still doesn't understand what he's done to deserve this, but bewilderment is very far away, small and unimportant. This is, once again, a surprise; it's certainly not a disappointment.

He tries to imagine shaping the sound of an answer to John's quiet prompt, but can't get one out before John bends down to kiss his throat, and Martin's eyes finally flutter shut, his throat bobbing as he swallows, a small, desperately plaintive whine slipping out as his fingers curl against the cushions. He shivers, and just barely manages a nod and a shaky, "Mm-hm."

"Good," John replies, settling his hands on Martin's upper arms and letting his own weight press him down against the cushions. He continues bestowing a few light kisses along the line of Martin's neck, taking his sweet time with it, feeling the radiating heat of Martin's flushed skin against his cheeks and the rabbiting beat of his pulse against his lips. Then, with infinite patience, he seals his lips against the soft skin of Martin's throat and begins to suck — firmly enough to leave a temporary mark, but not quite hard enough to bruise.

Martin keeps his eyes shut, his eyelids still fluttering gently, willing himself to exist only in the quiet anticipation of whatever John intends for him. He tilts his chin up ever so slightly as John continues to kiss him, wanting to allow space as much as to simply luxuriate in it; and when John finally starts to suck at his throat, a small tremor passes through him, a slight tension coiled in his arms where John's hands grip him. It's so terribly gentle, a clear prelude to something more, and while it feels divine in its own right — and while Martin no longer feels anything close to the impatience he was so thoroughly chastised for — the awareness that more is coming is still enough to have him staving off the more desperate wriggling or pleading he might normally fall to. Right now, he feels some faint sense that he has to earn that, or at least that if John wants to hear him beg, he'll make it known. So he limits himself to another small, plaintive sound, a soft moan, high and delicate.

Martin's reaction is relatively restrained, but that's all right. What John has in mind will, he thinks, work best if there's some degree of desperation on Martin's part, but it will also require him to still have some self-possession, so John doesn't want to spend too much time winding him up.

There's also no denying that John himself is rather eager to make good on the promise of those undone buttons. So, as he sucks another mark a little closer to the juncture of Martin's neck and shoulder, he also lets go Martin's arms so he can start to slowly inch up the hem of his undershirt. He keeps his pace steady and unhurried, in deliberate contrast to the impatience Martin had goaded him into before, but there's no mistaking his intent as he rucks the garment up until it's bunched just below Martin's collar bone. He wants plenty of room to work.

John carefully readjusts his position, scooting back a foot along the couch cushions. One hand holds the bunched undershirt in place, where it won't be in the way; the other splays itself over Martin's ribs, close enough to its target that an easy sweep of his thumb is all it would take to reach his left nipple. He leans down again, pressing a leisurely kiss against Martin's sternum, then making his slow, incremental way towards Martin's right side.

An inch or so shy of the mark, he pauses, nuzzling against his chest. Then, with the air of a professor reviewing a lesson, or a language instructor prompting a phrase their student ought to have memorized, he asks, "Do you deserve this?"

Martin's breath hitches with steadily increasing frequency as John starts to pull up the hem of his undershirt, making his intentions inescapably clear. With John's hands no longer pinning him down, he has to put extra effort into keeping still, though he can't quite stop himself from twitching with building desperation as John slowly, slowly exposes his belly and his chest. He takes his time, agonizingly patient, as if in direct reply to that earlier burst of aggression Martin had teased out of him. When one hand finally comes to rest on his chest, achingly close to one nipple, and even more so when John starts kissing him on a clear path to the other, Martin can't resist a frantic little whimper, as near to pleading as he can get.

And then John stops, waiting, letting the tension build to where it might as well be an actual crackle of static electricity. Then he asks his question, and Martin freezes, his eyes snapping back open to stare at the ceiling.

He almost thinks he should've seen this coming. Christ, it's too obvious. He might as well have set it up himself. He feels, for a moment, completely stuck, mired in indecision and astonishment and... and frustration.

Because he doesn't think he deserves this; or rather, the idea of claiming he does is anathema to him. He's always hated thinking about it in those terms. The appeal of being submissive is broad and complicated, but a not-insignificant part of it is being able to pretend that he has no choice in the matter. That John is the arbiter of what he deserves, what he's earned, what he receives. That John is choosing to do this, to take control of him, to reward or punish him accordingly, and that Martin is... simply along for the ride. He knows that's not the true core of it, but the theatrics grant him the freedom not to get bogged down in the messy reality that he... that he wants things, and that he is, in fact, entitled to have them. At least not in the bloody moment, when he's at his most vulnerable.

He hates acknowledging this; that he's human, that he has desires. He's only just had to confront the fact that he's jealous and petty and insecure, and now John wants him to admit that he still, after all that, deserves this?

Worst, most potent of all, he can't answer it simply because he wants John to make good on this implicit offer, no matter how badly he does want that. He has to mean it. John wants him to mean it.

Christ, John loves him so much. Martin wants to cling to his frustration over being cornered this way, but as the moment stretches on, all he can feel is loved. Which is frustrating on its own, really.

Because this is part of the jealousy, too. Not just that John might appeal to others, but that he surely can't be John's best option. After all this time there is still a little seed of bitter, lonely doubt in him, that John ought not love him as much as he does. And that is so horrid, so self-centered, and so pathetic, it makes Martin want to turn inward and deny himself this whole thing. How can he possibly deserve all this?

"I—" He swallows thickly, letting his eyes fall shut again as he struggles to compose himself. He tries not to think about how badly he wants, or how small a person he feels. Instead he tries to think about John, and what John deserves, and whether he truly believes anyone else would meet his own high standards in terms of giving John the world. How hard they've both fought to get here, and how he truly would do anything to keep it. How angry he's become when others don't see John for who he is, and how lucky he knows he is. And how much John loves him, and how committed he is to showing it, to force Martin to see it.

And that... well, if he doesn't deserve it, then what the hell is he doing here at all?

So. "I do," he says quietly, his voice cracking a little around the syllable. His fingers flex and then relax subtly. "I— I do."

Edited Date: 2023-05-27 08:54 am (UTC)

John had phrased the question very deliberately. It wasn't 'do you think you deserve this' — he knows the answer to that one already, and after casting himself as the arbiter of what Martin deserves, he isn't necessarily seeking a second opinion on the matter. But that's part of the game, isn't it? If Martin wants to surrender to John's control, then he can surrender to John's perceptions, as well. He can acknowledge the legitimacy of them, even if it's something he finds difficult to accept. It isn't so different from John's acceptance of when Martin fell in love with him: well before he would have ever deemed himself worthy of it, but not a truth he gets to dictate.

Still, he doesn't expect acquiescence to be easy, or comfortable, and he listens to Martin struggle without knowing if he'll be able to bully past his own self-doubts or not. His patience is informed by the simple fact that a 'no' wouldn't be the end of the world. He has a few ideas on how to handle that, up to and including 'biting,' and he thinks a little persuasion might end up being more fun than a straightforward reward.

But there is no room for regret when Martin finally, softly agrees with him. Astonishment, certainly — John's eyebrows shoot up and he feels a swell of startled warmth in his chest as Martin stammers out his 'I do' — but he's far too busy being delighted that Martin managed it on his first go to regret the lost opportunity to torment him a bit. Not least of all because the line between 'torment' and 'reward' is so conveniently thin in the first place.

"You do," John agrees, before putting his mouth to other uses: pressing one last kiss to Martin's chest and then sealing his lips around his nipple and sucking once, firm and pointed. His right hand, meanwhile, closes in on its own target, and he pinches Martin between the pad of his thumb and the curled knuckle of his forefinger, tugging in concert.

There is no time for embarrassment, for retraction, certainly not for regret. Martin can feel his pulse in his fingertips as John bestows another kiss upon his chest, his eyes shut tight in that breathless moment before the promised sensation finally comes. And when it does — they haven't done this often enough for Martin to have become remotely accustomed to how overwhelmingly good it feels — it hits him with full force, a shudder ricocheting through him, his back arching as he moans, heavy and desperate and full of want. The timing is too precise, the wind-up too intentional, for him to separate feeling from sentiment. So he is pinned to the moment, caught in frantic, delicious ecstasy and inescapably aware of how much he has, in fact, earned it.

It should make him want to hide himself, to walk into the nearest available peat bog. It doesn't. Somehow, it doesn't. Instead it feels like some distant switch has flipped. There is nothing theatrical, now, about the impulse to beg for more. Not if deserving is on the table.

"Oh god—" Words disappear into a shrill whine as John releases him, the tension cut, his back flattening back against the cushions as he shudders and sucks in short, shallow breaths. His eyes blink open as he looks, impossibly, allows himself to see this, to see John bent over him, to really perceive himself here, vulnerable, wanting, and human. "O-oh god, please, please."

The noise Martin makes sends a thrill up John's spine. He'd asked his pointed question and received the answer he'd hoped for, but it's that needy, desperate moan that feels like the true culmination of his efforts. That's what he's most wanted to hear since Martin's mortified admission, since the moment he realized Martin loved him enough to be outright stupid about it. Not an explanation, or an excuse. Not even the acknowledgment that he (still, always) deserves to be treated as magnificently as John knows how. Just the wordless, euphoric cry of a man who has slowly learned to stop apologizing for himself. And now, John wants nothing more than to hear it again.

Martin shivers beneath him, gasping for breath, and John pauses to let him recover himself (and to consider his next move; he doesn't normally start so strong right out of the gate). He isn't expecting to feel Martin's gaze upon him, though, and it's a pull he cannot bring himself to resist. John tips his head to look back, meeting Martin's eyes, his cheek resting against Martin's chest as they take each other in. He looks beautiful, a flustered sun cresting above the rumpled horizon of his undershirt, and John grins in spite of himself. It is broad and self-satisfied — and, admittedly, not entirely conducive to the job at hand. He can't keep applying his lips to the task if he's too busy grinning with them. But he has other tools at his disposal, and his grin takes a turn for the mischievous as a new sort of escalation occurs to him.

Without taking his eyes off Martin's, he tips his chin up and, with cat-like impudence, opens his mouth and catches a roll of Martin's skin between his jaws. It's a firm but gentle clasp that largely utilizes his rounder premolars rather than the more sharp-edged incisors, and it encompasses the area around Martin's areola as well — as much a playful, visual threat than a move in and of itself. But it makes for an intriguing set-up, and John's tongue drags over the peak of Martin's nipple incidentally as much as deliberately.

John meets his eyes as easily as if he was waiting for it, and Martin's breath stutters in his chest, utterly arrested by both the steadiness of the gaze and the quick-blooming grin that accompanies it. He looks so happy; he looks so delighted to have Martin here, to be doing this to and for him, and even though this is not, by the strictest definitions, new, Martin cannot simply notice it without feeling its full weight, fresh and profound. John does not simply love him, John wants him, and Martin is not sure he'll ever be able to take that knowledge at simple face value. It is important; it is the most important thing. It's why his jealousy was unfair and ridiculous. And instead of just pointing that out, John is all but forcing him to come to the conclusion himself.

He barely has any time for these thoughts to coalesce before John's grin grows a little more intent and he shifts slightly, only slightly, keeping Martin pinned with persistent eye contact. Martin twitches, startling as John takes him in his mouth, between his teeth, pinching the flesh there in a loose, suggestive bite; he stares, astonished and wholly trapped by John's impossibly steady gaze, which does not falter even as he presses further, licking him, slow and almost lazy, like a smug, playful afterthought. Another moan erupts out of Martin so suddenly that it startles him even more; his head falls back against the couch, his eyes shut once again and his mouth open, gasping as he trembles, his fingers curling tighter against the cushions as if seeking something to grasp.

"Oh, fuck," he says, barely audible between frantically drawn breaths. Christ, that's good, he wouldn't even have imagined it would be so good. "John—"

If there is a downside to using his mouth on Martin, it's only the fact that it generally means not being able to see the effect he's having. Much as he enjoys the myriad sounds he might coax out of him, being able to watch the play of emotion across Martin's face is its own unique pleasure. So it feels like a rare treat to see Martin's eyes widen in astonishment just before another heavy moan bursts out of him. John holds onto his smug self-possession just long enough to give Martin a light squeeze with his teeth; then he's forced to let go, turning his head to smother a chuckle in the soft swell of Martin's chest.

"Liked that, did you?" he murmurs, composing himself enough to press a slow kiss against one of the faint arcs of dimpled tooth-marks he'd left in Martin's skin. Emboldened — and not wanting to be neglectful — he gives Martin's left side a luxuriant squeeze with his right hand, rolling his nipple with artless insouciance between the knuckles of his thumb and forefinger. It almost feels cheap, just groping him like a bloody teenager, but Christ, Martin has always been a pleasure to touch. And John would like to think, by now, that he's earned a bit of indulgence.

Edited Date: 2023-05-30 10:39 pm (UTC)

"Ah—!" Martin whines sharply through gritted teeth as John actually threatens to bite down properly, his whole body now shivering with the effort of keeping still. He wants, very suddenly and very badly, to struggle, but it isn't practical with John's teeth so near sensitive territory, nor when he's not functionally restrained and could far too easily dislodge John completely. But Christ, the impulse is strong, nearer to reflexive than it's been in a while, he thinks. It's a small relief when John releases him, though only in the sense that he needed a slight breather; he is immediately, intensely desperate for more.

John murmurs softly against his skin, favoring him with some gentler treatment before startling Martin anew by actually grasping a solid handful of his chest and squeezing him between his fingers. Martin jerks beneath him, his eyes flying back open as he gasps and whimpers, the intensity of his vocalizations now tempered by breathlessness. He lifts one hand off the couch to brace instead against the back of it, needing the extra support to keep himself contained. He's starting to think he should've been tied up for this, but he also has no desire to halt things long enough to even suggest that.

There is some distant embarrassment over how much being essentially groped is doing it for him. It's not even the first time he's experienced such a sensation, unlike a lot of the most effective things John pulls. A couple of the men he's been with did like the shape and softness of his body, and they each showed it in similar fashion, seizing handfuls of him to make him squeak. But it wasn't the same. It's never the same. With them it felt either invasive and uninvited, or distantly like he was being mocked. But John didn't start there, way back when their relationship was becoming increasingly physical. John started gentle, tender and even reverent, making it clear again and again that he likes Martin for the whole of him, not certain relevant parts. Mutual respect has always been too important to them to ever mistake John's intentions, even in their early days when Martin still had a lot of self-doubt to climb over. That John is resorting to this kind of maneuver now is... it's just because he wants to, because he's gotten the sense Martin might like it, and because, as ever, he's keen to see what kind of effect it'll have. And it is effective. It's effective now for the same reason that it never was before: there is a stark difference between being treated like a plaything because that's what he is, and being treated like a plaything because that's how he wants to feel. This is theater; it is for his benefit more than John's, and John would never dream of it otherwise.

So it isn't the sensation itself, not really; as with so much of what Martin enjoys, it has far more to do with the suggestion that he is desirable, and that he is at John's mercy, whatever form that may take.

At least, this is what will solidify later, what exists now only as quick, disjointed thoughts. Right now he is rather more concerned with the moment itself. He tries to speak, perhaps an attempt to answer John's largely rhetorical question, or simply to beg, but all that comes out is another shrill, utterly desperate whine.

Martin twitches and gasps beneath him, and John mentally logs his latest maneuver as a success — a conclusion that briefly falters in the uncertain moment between Martin lifting his hand and him gripping the back of the couch. Novelty is potent, but it doesn't always pay off, and there was always the chance that Martin might not appreciate such irreverent manhandling (and might answer it just as irreverently, with a well-earned swat). But it seems he just needed to brace himself, and John suppresses a smirk before shifting his focus back to the work.

Martin's right side is variably flushed and marked from John's attentions, but so far, he's left nothing that will last. That ought to be rectified, he thinks. If this is all a reminder of how much they mean to one another, it stands to reason that a lasting mark or two would both extend and cement the lesson.

So. "I've got you, love," he murmurs, pairing the tender endearment with another cheeky squeeze of his hand. Letting his thumb settle into a holding pattern around Martin's left nipple, he adds, "Hold on tight." Then he bites down on the soft roll of flesh where Martin's chest meets his belly, pulling it between his teeth firmly enough to bruise.

The reassurance — or reminder — serves to bring Martin down by a few degrees, enough to catch his breath and let go some of his excess tension even as John squeezes him again. Martin blinks down at him, his vision a little blurry, just in time for John to start thumbing his nipple. Martin squeaks softly, then lets himself squirm, just once, experimental and tentative, such that it could almost be mistaken for simply adjusting his position. He wants more but he has no desire to demand or even lead John with his own behavior — he's not looking to entice another punishment out of him. It's more a natural reaction to being toyed with, a consequence of how turned on he has become.

He's caught there for a moment, gazing at the top of John's head, briefly lost in the always-potent realization that this is happening, until he registers John's next remark and the direction he seems to be taking.

"Oh, god—" is all he manages to get out before John bites down, and then Martin screams, his back arching as John starts to mark him. Martin's neck is easily a more sensitive location for this; any additional mass to him starts to dampen the feeling. The area surrounding his shoulder and collarbone provide a pleasant enough alternative when they want their marks hidden. But this? By rights it almost shouldn't feel good, more like a random pinch than anything strictly sensual. But after his initial scream, he sucks in another breath and moans, softer and hungrier, his hand splayed hard against the couch back to keep himself as still as possible. The sensation may not be earth-shattering, but he does not want it to stop.

Because it is impossible not see the implication in this, that John is not just exploring the softness of his body but claiming it as beloved, actively forcing acknowledgment upon it. I've got you, he'd said.

Maybe he didn't quite have it right, Martin thinks, fragmented but somehow clear. Yes, John likes the whole of him, loves him, wants him; but just as it isn't because of the way he looks and feels, it is also not despite that. The wanting includes his body; it always has.

He feels a little bit like he's going to start weeping. "John," he stammers before breaking off with another gasping cry, twitching as John continues to toy with his left nipple.

Edited Date: 2023-05-31 02:27 am (UTC)

Distantly, John is a bit shocked by his own behavior. When he toys with Martin, it's usually at something of a remove. His own wants — to whatever extent he might have them — are focused outwards, and subsumed beneath layers of theatricality and playful artifice. It's a scene, or a game, and Martin's pleasure is so paramount that his own often seems more incidental: a fortunate coincidence, but not exactly the point. Yet here he is, allowing himself to grab Martin by delicious handfuls for the sheer sensory pleasure of it, to mark him someplace entirely new not just because of novelty's familiar potency, but because he wanted to know how it would feel. Because he's forgotten to care if his curiosity or simple enjoyment might easily be mistaken for something obscene.

And it's fucking working, is the thing. If the noises Martin is making are anything to go by, he's having a hell of a good time. He's certainly giving no indication that he wants John to stop. The way he says John's name gets his attention, though — there's a familiar, plaintive note that has always made John's breath catch in his chest.

He lifts his head, blinking as if snapped out of a daydream. Whatever else he intends can wait; he suddenly needs to kiss Martin properly, and he lets go the undershirt so he can brace both hands against Martin's chest as he leans forward, meeting Martin's lips with single-minded focus. The kiss is thorough and deep, and for a moment, he allows himself to think of nothing else: the subtle sweetness of Martin's lips after the salt tang of his body, the intimate closeness of every little noise he makes. Then he draws back an inch or two, opening his eyes enough to take Martin in, his hooded gaze both attentive and considering as he thinks about Martin's desperate grip on the couch, and what he's actually trying to do here, and how little it looks like what they've already done before.

"You can touch me," he offers, bending closer, though their lips don't quite meet. "It's okay." He can't think of any cautionary clauses Martin might actually need to hear; he cannot imagine Martin trying anything that would put him off. It's been ages since John conceptualized restraint as a convenient safety net for some imagined potential indiscretion on Martin's part, and he doesn't think they need to pretend it is serving that purpose here. It is only a game if Martin wants to play it, and it's only due to that possibility that he adds, "If you like."

Martin meets the kiss with open desperation, moaning sweetly against John's lips, relieved to feel him so close after all that. His fingers twitch, no longer needed in the occupation of keeping him braced, but lacking an obvious alternative. When John pulls back, Martin meets his lidded gaze, his breath still coming quick and shallow, but no other outward signs of tension to be found.

And then John speaks, coming close so Martin can feel his breath ghosting across his lips, and the immediate thrill he feels at the offer almost shocks him. This is all he wanted, he realizes, his arms immediately resettling themselves around John with barely even enough time for John's generous but unnecessary addendum. One hand he sets at the familiar valley between John's shoulder blades, and the other he curls tenderly into John's hair at the back of his head. Christ, he just wanted to be allowed to touch him, but if he'd actually let himself think that — it wouldn't have seemed fair. A hand on the back of John's head might have seemed too much like guiding, or even worse, keeping him in place. It might've come as a shock, might've disrupted the whole thing. That avenue had seemed so inherently blocked off that he hadn't even let himself want it clearly enough that he knew to ask. But now...

"Yes," he whispers, gently pulling John down for another kiss. "Yes."

Edited Date: 2023-05-31 09:45 pm (UTC)

Martin takes him up on the offer so quickly that it startles a low chuckle out of him — a sound that quickly transmutes to a hum as Martin draws him in for another kiss. John sighs quietly and slumps a little more heavily against him, luxuriating in the feeling of Martin's hand in his hair. It's a little like a missing piece finally slotting into place... or, perhaps more accurately, like they're strolling down an avenue they were a little remiss in not exploring before today. But after his own earlier boldness in taking his pleasure, it had felt a little unfair to keep Martin's hands proverbially tied. He doesn't want to deny Martin anything, least of all the opportunity to get a little of his own back.

"I love you," John murmurs, his nose brushing against Martin's in a fond little nuzzle, before dipping his head to favor him with another slow kiss. Then, one corner of his mouth curling up in smug little smirk, he asks, "Shall I... get back to it, then?" His left hand isn't well-placed for any incidental mischief, but his right hasn't really moved from its original position, and it only takes a little searching with his thumb before he finds Martin's nipple and gives it a pointed little nudge.

This is beyond decadent, and even as Martin surrenders himself to it a small part of him still wonders, at a great distance, how on earth he managed to net this reaction to his idiocy. The question sticks, but it's a mystery for later; for now he'd much rather enjoy the outcome, John's weight resting so comfortably on him, John's lips against his. He wants to reply to the murmured sentiment, the urge to answer in kind all but reflexive; but John doesn't leave him time, kissing him again and following with a wry question and a light but deliberate touch. Martin gasps softly and nods, eager, frantic, to feel more.

"Please," he whispers, and he starts to lift his hands away on automated instinct, but then hesitates. "D-do you want me to stop?"

John lets himself pause and consider the question, though the answer feels obvious enough to him: it's there in the immediate pang of disappointment he feels when Martin starts to lift his hands away, and the almost petulant conviction that he's hardly had the chance to enjoy it, yet. But Martin is right to ask, and John doesn't want to respond entirely off the cuff. So he gives himself the opportunity to imagine the potential repercussions, both good and bad.

The good seem fairly self-explanatory: he loves it when Martin plays with his hair, and he thinks Martin might have a more pleasant time of it if he has something to do besides 'try to hold still.' The bad would likely be no worse than Martin accidentally pinching him during a moment of heightened distraction, which wouldn't be the end of the world — and even that risk seems negligible. Odds are Martin will take extra care with him, given how new this is. Hell, if he manages to make Martin forget himself so thoroughly that he causes any discomfort by mistake, he could probably take that as a sign of a job very well done.

So John smiles faintly, and says, "No, thank you," before leaning in to give Martin a brief peck. "I trust you'll behave yourself." One of them ought to, after all, and it certainly won't be him. He presses a parting kiss to Martin's chin, then moves to reposition himself. This time, in the interest of equity, he intends to give Martin's left side more of his attention, so he lets his right hand take up the mantle of holding Martin's undershirt up out of the way, and his left hand shifts to cup Martin's right side.

Best to start slow, he thinks, while Martin adjusts to his new privileges. So he doesn't quite make contact, his left hand giving his chest a gentle squeeze as he sucks a faint mark over Martin's heart.

Martin is a little surprised by John's acquiescence, but even more than that he is relieved by it. Now that he's been allowed this, he doesn't much want to relinquish it. John's comfort trumps his own desires, of course, but if all things are equal?

His answering grin is brief, quickly tempered to something more demure at John's light warning; and then John resumes the path down his chest and Martin tips his head back, breath held in anticipation, hands remaining steady and gentle at John's back and the back of his head.

That breath comes out in a short gust and a soft squeak when John switches sides — sides, but not his approach, Martin is rather delighted to notice, as John gives him another little squeeze. Even now he's surprised by how much he likes such a brazenly cheeky maneuver, and he thinks it's not just for the novelty of it. It's nice to be felt up, both physically and because of what it represents, that John is really enjoying him. He answers with a subtle flex of his fingers, a light scrub through John's hair as if mirroring the motion. He's halfway considering some wry remark or other on this new fixation, but any hope of being coherent disappears when John resumes sucking on his chest.

It's not as intense as before, but it's also not a familiar spot; close to his nipple but not quite there, sensitive territory but more in suggestion than on its own. Over his heart, Martin realizes at a remove.

His fingers twitch, but he keeps his grip gentle above all. His lips part to allow a soft, keening moan between shallow breaths. Desperate, but not impatient; he cannot dream of impatience while being allowed to hold John like this.

Allowing Martin to keep his hands where they are pays off almost immediately. The light squeeze John gives him is answered by a little scrub of Martin's fingers, not enough to distract him outright, but more than enough to get Martin's approval across. Maybe they weren't strictly in need of a new method of communication — they've got on well enough without it so far — but he's both instantly charmed and rather intrigued by the way this one's working out. As much as Martin's noises delight him, he certainly wouldn't say no to additional feedback by way of having his hair played with. It's lovely and gentle, and John nuzzles against Martin's chest with a soft, pleased hum.

Still, he doesn't want to let himself luxuriate in it too much. He has other things he means to try. They haven't done this often enough for him to have a particularly thorough map of the possibilities, and he is always eager to chart new territory. He takes Martin's right nipple between the pad of his thumb and the side of his forefinger, giving it more of an assessing roll than an outright squeeze. Then he closes his lips around his left side, drawing Martin's nipple into his mouth and tracing his tongue around the firm peak in an experimental whorl.

Martin expects — he doesn't know what to expect. More of the same, more or less; an escalation of some kind, either gradual and patient or sudden and surprising. There's a broad range of possibility, and the unpredictability is half the fun. But he still feels as though he has a reasonable idea of the techniques at John's disposal. As if all the surprises thus far have met some sort of unspoken quota, and there couldn't possibly be any more.

So it's a bit ridiculous to be shocked when John uses his tongue, especially considering it isn't even the first time this session. But that earlier move had been playful, mischievous, and almost incidental, like he was just poking at Martin to get a reaction rather than actually testing any waters. As if John's ever been known to try anything only once.

This time, though, it is markedly different. Thorough and attentive, a completed thought compared to that earlier notion. John so rarely employs his tongue beyond talking that Martin would never have thought to consider this specifically. He would, if it had ever occurred to him, have assumed it might be too much.

But apparently not. And it's fucking great, is the thing. John is as dexterous here as with his fingers, and in concert with that gentle, persistent suction, it's sublime. Martin's back arches sharply as he nearly chokes on a sudden inhalation, cutting himself off mid-cry and gasping instead. His fingers twitch, his hold on John tightening just a little, a gentle pressure that might almost seem subtle if not for his trembling.

"Oh, fuck," he blurts when he has his voice again. He relaxes his hands again, letting his touch simply be warm and steady. "Oh god, yes."

Now that's a reaction. If Martin's hold on him hadn't instinctively tightened, John thinks he might's been jostled loose by the sudden, sharp arch of Martin's spine. He still ends up releasing Martin to breathe, and to allow himself a flash of a smile. Holy shit, he thinks, his stomach clenching with a nascent, giddy giggle that he has to work to suppress.

He could almost kick himself for taking this long to use his tongue for something besides smart remarks. Granted, the hesitation had made sense. Most of what he does with his mouth falls under the general umbrella of 'kissing,' and they had quickly discovered they were on the same page when it came to not enjoying kisses that were too... well, wet. It had felt natural, then, to keep his tongue out of the way as a matter of course. Changing that had been partly (perhaps even mostly) incidental; he can't very well pull Martin into his mouth without his tongue coming into play to some extent. It had just taken him a bit to appreciate how silly it was to prudently ignore it, or pretend it wasn't a tool he could use if he worked up the requisite gumption.

Presuming Martin enjoyed it, of course. Perhaps the prospect of it being too much, somehow — or simply not to Martin's tastes — is one of the reasons he hadn't gone for it sooner. There was a mortifying plausibility to 'presuming to lick Martin and being asked in no uncertain terms to stop,' and while he's recovered from missteps in the bedroom before, he thinks that one, had it occurred, would actually have killed him.

But his first (and most incidental) attempt had been a rousing success, and the second even more so. It seems audacity is becoming something of a theme, and John loves nothing so much as being a bit of a shit. Especially if it has the added benefit of driving Martin mad. To that end, John seals his lips back over Martin's chest, this time dragging the flat of his tongue over his nipple in a slow, pointed lap. He gives that move a beat to stand on its own, then follows it by giving Martin's other side a proper pinch and a good, firm tug.

Martin barely has time to catch his breath before John, smiling and self-satisfied, does it again, slower and steadier this time, an exquisitely gentle motion that nonetheless hits him with electric force. He moans heavily, the sound somewhat strained behind a clenched jaw, followed immediately by a quick, sharp gasp as John pinches and pulls at his other nipple.

"Christ," he says breathlessly, his whole body twitching once again with the effort of holding still, now feeling a bit like holding onto John is all that's keeping him together. He isn't sure how much more of this he'll be able to take; he just hopes he can last a little while longer. His next plea is scarcely more than a whisper: "Please don't stop."

John considers relenting, or at least shifting his focus to something a little less intense in the interest of drawing things out. But Martin begs him, breathless, not to stop, and he doesn't have it in him to deny so desperate a plea. He hums his assent against and around him, circling him again with his tongue, cheeks hollowing as he sucks a bit harder. His left hand settles into a steady rhythm of pinches and tugs. Then — in the interest of getting in at least one more impulsive little experiment before the end — John risks... not quite a nip, but a light, playful scrape of his teeth against the soft skin just to the side of Martin's areola.

Edited Date: 2023-06-05 04:55 am (UTC)

Martin shudders, a low, euphoric whine dragging out of him as John redoubles his efforts; then there's a sudden, startling scrape of teeth that feels on the very precipice of too much, and he lets out a noise that is closer to a shriek, his whole body tensing. From there another light tug is all it takes, and Martin does not have the wherewithal to let John go, to hold him at some imagined safe distance like he normally would. Instead his instincts take hold and he pulls John closer, enfolding him tight against his chest as though anchoring himself against the intense wave of orgasm. Then it's over, and he's left trembling softly, struggling to catch his breath, still holding John to himself.

"I—" he starts to loosen his grip, awkwardly, like he's remembering how his limbs work. He's flushed, impossibly happy, but not enough to drown out a little note of concern at the unprecedented contact. "Are you—"

John has become good enough at reading Martin in this context that he isn't often taken by surprise anymore. But perhaps it's fitting, given how much novelty he felt bold enough to employ, that Martin should manage to startle him in turn. Some of it is, admittedly, his own distraction: he was very curious about what sort of reaction that light suggestion of a nip would get him, but hadn't anticipated that it would finish the job. Much more surprising, however, is the way Martin's grip tightens around him, clutching him against his chest.

John's small, startled grunt is mostly lost beneath the noise Martin's making, and he blinks owlishly, too stunned to squirm or otherwise resist. He doesn't know that Martin's ever clung to him this tightly before, barring emergencies, and the strength of it surprises him (if only because he's so used to considering Martin's strength, in this context, as something that could be used to push him away, not pull him closer). But there are certainly worse places to be so enfolded, and once the initial shock subsides, John starts to shake with silent laughter. When Martin eventually loosens his grip, John pulls in a breath and releases it in an audible giggle, using his regained mobility to turn in towards Martin's chest in a fond, bashful nuzzle.

"—Okay?" he says, as much finishing the question as answering it. He presses a brief kiss to Martin's sternum, then lifts his head, wriggling a bit so he can prop his chin on the back of his own wrist, gazing at Martin from atop the rumpled ridge of his undershirt. "I should say so. You?"

Whatever fear he might've had that he's just overstepped horribly dissolves in the face of John's delightful little giggle, and Martin meets his gaze with a flushed face and a bashful smile.

"I'm fucking brilliant," he answers, the smile turning to more of an outright beam. "Christ. That was..." Words elude him, and he just shakes his head, reaching up to run his fingers softly through John's hair. "Absolute maniac," he says fondly. "I love you."

John grins outright at being dubbed a maniac. That's a new one, and not a term he ever would have imagined as being applicable, but Martin has a way of making it sound like a badge of honor. He hums, pleased and a little smug, his eyes briefly drifting shut as Martin cards through his hair. Their current arrangement might not be conducive for an extended cuddle — Martin will want to get cleaned up sooner or later (probably sooner), and the distant awareness that this angle is playing merry hell with his back is already starting to elbow its way towards the forefront of his mind — but he intends to enjoy it while it lasts.

"I love you," he replies in a low murmur, as if it's a wholly separate thought. He'd let go Martin's chest in his earlier shock, and now he resettles his hand closer to Martin's sternum, his fingers gently circling the exposed skin just beneath his undershirt. One eyebrow quirks, and he adds a playfully pointed, "Lest ye forget."

Martin hums, soft and contented, at the gentle trace of John's fingers. At the sudden reminder of what prompted all this, though, he blinks his eyes back open and lets out a small, embarrassed cough. "Y-yeah, erm... I take your point."

A point made so thoroughly he still finds it a little bewildering. He'd almost managed to forget his earlier confusion, might almost have overlooked it in the interest of simply counting himself lucky (luckiest man in the world) and hurrying to put it behind him. It might've just been a case where John wasn't interested in playing by the expected social rules in terms of his response to Martin being an arse. John doesn't typically put much stock in social rules, anyway. What point would there be in rowing over it when this was so much more enjoyable, so much more a definitive counterpoint?

But there's still something that leaves Martin feeling... curious. Not that John's reaction wasn't negative, not even that he chose to respond like this, but something about the response itself, the fervor of it, his... for lack of a better word, insatiability. Martin studies John for just a moment, but now's not quite the time to ask, his head still full of fluff and static and other matters slightly more pressing.

He lifts his hand, taking in John's awkward position with a sympathetic wince. "Here, this cannot be comfortable. Let me get cleaned up and we can relocate, yeah?" He lets his smile soften. "I'm going to give you such a backrub."

Once John's moved out of the way, he rolls off the couch, heaving himself up and picking his way over to the loo.

It's an astute observation, though John still lets out a noncommittal grumble before bracing a hand on the couch and levering himself upright. The motion grants him a handful (well, backful) of resentful twinges and two audible cracks, and he winces briefly until Martin's promise registers.

"Ooh," John says with an intrigued lilt, getting to his feet and stepping aside so Martin can toddle past him. "I'll just go and prepare myself, shall I?"

He heads for the kitchen, first, getting himself a glass of water, downing half of it, and refilling the glass to bring along for the ride — Martin might be a bit thirsty when he emerges, as well. The water is set carefully on the bedside table, and then John shucks off his top, mentally congratulating himself on having already dressed down before things got underway. It means there's nothing else to stand between him and pitching down onto the bed, which he does with a quiet oof and a gusty sigh. He could probably grab his pillow, but for the moment he just lets himself sprawl, eyes drifting closed as he listens for Martin's arrival.

Cleanup managed as efficiently as ever (with only a small pause to somewhat giddily examine his fresh bruise), Martin returns to find John already near to dozing, sprawled luxuriously across the bed. He pauses a moment at the threshold, taking in the sight with a small, pleased smile, then proceeds to sit down beside him, the mattress dipping under his added weight.

"All right, then," he says, letting his hands come to rest on John's back, giving him ample time to acclimate to the touch before he starts to press down. "There we are."

He gives John a healthy minute or two to really settle in and enjoy the process before he lets up a bit, doing a bit of lighter, gentler work as he says, "So what was all that about?"

Edited Date: 2023-06-06 10:58 pm (UTC)

He doesn't quite manage a doze, but he also doesn't manage to rouse himself until Martin sits beside him; and then, with the almost immediate warmth of Martin's hands against his back, he decides he can't be bothered with pillow-fetching. As if there's more exquisite comfort to be had than what he's already receiving.

For a minute or so, Martin works in silence — or near enough, minus the appreciative groans he's coaxing out of John. Christ, this is exactly what he needed, not just after their interlude on the couch, but after hunching over the hole in the Observatory basement for an hour or so. And Martin is so very good at it. John melts into the bedspread, all but purring as Martin kneads away the aches of the day.

And then Martin eases back on his efforts, and asks a question John isn't entirely sure how to parse. He makes a soft sound that's part bewildered grunt and part muzzy protest over being expected to think under these conditions, and cracks his eyes open. "What was what about?" he asks, uncertain and vaguely wary for reasons he can't quite pin down.

Martin could almost feel guilty, the way John hesitates and seems to address the question with something approaching reluctance. Entrapment isn't really his intention so much as just making sure the promise of a massage does not get lost in the shuffle — or that he doesn't bother to give John his much-needed comfort before springing questions on him. But the bewilderment is funny enough to keep him on task, confirming that John either hasn't realized his approach to this whole situation was rather... unique, or has forgotten it himself.

"I was just wondering," Martin says, grunting softly as he presses the heels of his hands into the wiry meat of John's shoulders, "what it was, exactly, about me behaving like an idiot that made you want to... all that." He lets up again, not wanting to make the answering more difficult than it needs to be. "Not that I don't appreciate the reassurance, but it was... a bit more than that." He can't resist a bit of mischief sneaking into his voice and his grin when he adds lightly, "What, does me being a prat do it for you? Suppose I could play the part more often if you like."

Martin's initial attempt to elaborate is not particularly enlightening, and John furrows his brow at the suggestion that it was Martin's idiocy that served as his primary inspiration. Not that Martin wasn't, admittedly, being a bit of an idiot... but that seems incidental when measured against the why of it all. He thought it was clear enough that it was the subtext that delighted him, not the surface-level ridiculous behavior.

But perhaps he shouldn't have assumed, given the frankly appalling suggestion that follows. "Wh— I-I-I—" John sputters, stiffening beneath Martin's hands as his cheeks darken with a mortified flush. "No! You—" he bites back the insistence that Martin wasn't being a prat, because he was, but also because it's so beside the point that he can't believe that's what Martin's taken away from it all and turned into a bloody subject of discussion. He drags up one arm so he can bury his face in the crook of his elbow. "Th-that wasn't— don't be absurd."

Martin can't help laughing a little at John's initial response, though he softens immediately as his mortification becomes increasingly apparent. He still can't stop smiling, but with John hiding himself, that at least seems harmless enough.

"All right, all right," he says, he hopes soothingly; but he can't quite make himself pull off this line of questioning entirely. If he were wildly off base, he thinks there wouldn't be anything for John to be mortified about, and that only sharpens his curiosity. He hums thoughtfully, stroking his hand up and down John's back.

"You just seemed so..." He fumbles his words a bit, trying not to say 'insatiable' aloud; "eager? Not to mention delighted to find out I was jealous of— wait." He blinks, realizing: that was it. Not his being in a mood and certainly not all the unkind jabs at Norah. He'd been joking, but maybe he was closer than he thought: it was when John guessed at his jealous feelings that his mood spun around completely. Martin stares down at him, his hand going still in fresh shock.

"Wait," he says again. "Not a prat, but a jealous prat. Is that it? Y-you liked it that I was jealous." He says it more astonished than accusatory, but the implication is still there.

John is decidedly not soothed by the gentle passage of Martin's hand up and down his back; he can tell by Martin's tone that he's not going to drop the subject, and at this point, he rather thinks he ought to clarify his own feelings somehow. Except he isn't sure how to begin to unpack it all, and he can feel his mortification trying to transmute itself into a proper, unhelpful sulk.

So it's almost a mercy when Martin actually manages to get there on his own. Almost. John's blush deepens, more in response to Martin's audible shock than the belated bulls-eye, and he reaches up to grab his pillow, dragging it down to cover his head.

"... Maybe," he admits at length, muffled beneath the down.

He wants to feel delighted at having guessed right; he wants, in equal measure, to soothe John's embarrassment and to laugh outright at how ridiculous it is. But all he can really feel, in the end, is that same astonishment. He can't believe he was right. He can't believe that's really it. And if anything, John's embarrassment only solidifies his confusion as he blurts, "But why?"

It is, he supposes, a fair question. Not to mention one he wasn't closely considering when he made his move on the couch. But there's no need for him to grope blindly for the answer; it is so obvious that he'd be tempted to resent Martin's inability to guess at that, too, if it wasn't so quintessentially him to not understand it at once. His confusion on this front feels like a perfect bookend to him being jealous in the first place: both symptoms of his inability to appreciate how little John appeals to the overwhelming majority of humanity.

John pulls in a breath, then puffs it out in a slow, defeated sigh. "No one's ever..." he coughs out a laugh, his faintly wistful tone hardening into something a little more sardonic. "It-it can't surprise you that no one's ever been jealous about me before." After a brief beat of consideration, he adds, "Entities aside, anyway."

Any remaining shreds of Martin's amusement fade under the soft, ever-so-slightly bitter tone of John's eventual reply. It makes sense, now that he thinks about it; it would never have occurred to him not only because he hadn't been able to imagine it flattering that he harbored any apparent doubts about John's integrity, in addition to just... well, not realizing this might be a new experience for John.

For a moment, he's not sure what to say. A few options rise up only to be dismissed at once: surely that's not true doing no one any good, and any anecdote about how long he managed to feel jealous of Georgie — to say nothing of everyone John's ever got on well with — unthinkable for a variety of reasons. It doesn't change that this is, to John, something only Martin has, would ever experience.

But he's more than certain pity isn't the right response. He doesn't think anyone's ever been jealous over him, either, John included, but it isn't a feeling he thinks he misses, and the idea of anyone feeling sorry for him over it is kind of horrible. He imagines John wouldn't have felt that way either until suddenly presented with it. Perhaps, then, it has less to do with John's own relative likability and more to do with his, Martin's, own capacity to feel this way.

"Well," he says firmly after a moment, leaning down to plant a soft, lingering kiss at the base of John's neck. Despite his confident tone, he still doesn't quite know what he's about to say, and it surprises him slightly when it ends up being: "Perhaps that's because I defeated them all in single combat."

Absurd is better than maudlin, he thinks, and he decides to lean into it, sitting back up and resuming the care of John's back and shoulders. "So those entities had better watch out," he adds, "and Norah had better not get any ideas, either."

Edited Date: 2023-06-07 02:48 am (UTC)

John plucks at the bedspread in front of his nose, an anxious fidget, while he waits for Martin to respond. Deliberately flying in the face of whatever mood Martin was cultivating was more fun when he was stubbornly dragging things up, not down; now, he just feels like an arse. If Martin was able to set aside his own jealousy in the interest of having a good time, the least John ought to be able to do is to stop being so goddamn precious over his own reaction to it. As if liking someone else's jealousy is any more legitimate — or less ridiculous — than being jealous in the first place.

He can still feel the heat of his own blush, undiminished, but now it's solely because he knows he's being a child, and isn't sure how to steer things right again. It doesn't seem fair to expect Martin to salvage things on his own. So it's with a startled blink that he notes Martin's airy, matter-of-fact tone, and an even more startled bark of laughter over the remark that follows. Thank Christ. Sympathy or comfort would've ruined him; this, he can handle.

He nudges the pillow up a few inches with one hand; the other flaps a bit clumsily in Martin's general direction before finding his shin and then curling around his calf in a light, fond clasp. "I think I can about guarantee you that she won't," he replies drily, looking back at Martin over his shoulder. Then he lets his eyes fall shut, finally beginning to relax again under Martin's ministrations.

After a few moments, his tone lapsed back into a lulled hum, he murmurs, "It's only you, Martin. It'll only ever be you." That's all he'd wanted him to understand — something he would've otherwise sworn Martin already knew, no atypically enthusiastic reminders necessary.

Martin grins broadly, delighted (and relieved) that his jokes seem to have landed; he hums his acknowledgment of John's rejoinder, part acceptance and a smaller, facetious part more of a 'see that she doesn't.' Then he settles as John does, mystery solved, equilibrium re-established, easing back into the simple pleasure of kneading John gently beneath his hands.

That might've been that, if John had remained quiet. But he speaks again, soft and deeply, unbearably sincere, and Martin goes still, his breath catching his chest, not quite making it out for the Oh shaped by his lips.

It's only a brief hesitation. That it's being uttered at all, and with such intensely tender phrasing, is more a surprise than the sentiment itself. But it cannot go without answer, and Martin leans back down, redoubling his efforts to loosen John's muscles even as he presses a kiss to John's hair; then finds that lacking, and keeps kissing around toward John's cheek until he drags his hands back up and coaxes John to turn into him, needing him, just for a moment. "Come here," he murmurs as their lips finally meet.

There is a brief pause, during which the corners of John's mouth tick up the faintest fraction in anticipation. It might not be a shocking sentiment — it shouldn't be, really; that it ought to go without saying is the afternoon's thesis statement — but he still expects it to net an agreeable reaction. 'What kind' is the only real question, and he lets out a pleased little coo when Martin resumes kneading him with a vengeance and leans down to kiss his hair. And the kisses continue, Martin blazing a deliberate trail towards John's mouth, and any further attempts to be facetious collapse in favor of a bashful giggle. Even for the sake of lightening the mood, he can't pretend he was angling for anything, or that his delight is anything but sincere.

John barely needs to be coaxed to turn over. He follows Martin willingly, his hands lighting on Martin's arms and drifting up to his shoulders as he hums softly against his lips.

Martin kisses him, slowly, gently; Martin kisses him, warm and close. Martin kisses him like he's the only thing that matters (and he is). He echoes the hum with one of his own, an answer and an invitation, yes, you, this. He lets his weight shift; he lets his body down, curled up alongside John's, pressed to the long line of him. One arm fits neatly around the small of John's back, hands close, holding him steady. He does not stop kissing him.

Martin meets him with gratitude and with care, with humor, with playfulness, with wonder and devotion, with deepest sincerity and above all, with trust. He whispers, "I love you," to John's lips, because there are no other words. He lets his forehead come to rest against John's, their noses brushing, a small, astonished smile touching his lips. He never thought he would be so happy and he never thought he would bear it with such grace. "I love you."

He isn't finished with the massage, does not want to indicate that he is. He stays there a moment, but his hand wanders up toward John's shoulder, gentle but intent. A soft nudge is all, a suggestion of more, if John is ready.

It is John's turn to simply acquiesce, his hands curling loose and almost demure against Martin's chest as Martin settles himself alongside him, a parallel sprawl. Fitting, a distant part of him thinks, that he should also have the opportunity to give himself over, to place himself in Martin's hands because there is nowhere else he would rather be, and because that is where Martin wants him. Less dramatic than what happened on the couch, perhaps, but no less necessary to complete the larger picture. John wants him, but also wants to be his — to surrender himself to Martin's keeping, to extend a measure of trust that no one else's fond feelings could or would ever wring from him. Christ, what could anyone else hope to offer him that would even begin to compare with this?

So he meets each kiss readily, open and pliant beneath Martin's hands and lips. His pleasure is telegraphed through quiet sighs, as if anything louder might constitute an interruption. It isn't until after Martin's whispered pronouncement that he feels compelled to speak, his nose brushing against Martin's in a small, gentle nuzzle as he whispers back, "I'm yours."

This is where things tend to wind down, the two of them breathing softly together until sleep takes them (and never mind that it's getting on towards dinner time; a nap would take precedence). So it's a slight surprise when Martin's hand returns to his shoulder. A surprise, but not an unwelcome one. John's not about to say no to more back rubs, and he gives Martin a small, bright smile before rolling back onto his front. The smile lingers as he resettles himself, feeling very pampered indeed.

John's soft reply has no business feeling as profound as it does; it's a sentiment they've each shared before, in many ways. But in light of the afternoon they've had, it seems unusually momentous. It's the final word on the matter; a closing statement so powerful there can be no argument. Martin answers it only with a tender smile, warmth swelling in his chest; then it's back to work as John reorients himself. Taking care of him is imperative, more important than anything else ever could or will be.

Martin always tries to be thorough with these, to devote as much care and attention as John's just devoted to him. He wants John to feel him; he wants to mend as much as he simply enjoys touching him. No one else gets to have this, and it is a privilege not to be handled lightly.

So he takes his sweet time. No more questions, no more disruptions. He allows John to rest, feeling him gradually relax by softening degrees beneath his hands like a physical proof of intense mutual trust. He works until he can feel John starting to drift, and then he slows, gentles, draws his hands away and settles down alongside him, curling an arm around him to pull him close. There, he thinks.