statement_ends | A Perfect Waste of Time

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martin blackwood

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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"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 2023-05-31 02:27 (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 2023-05-31 21:45 (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 2023-06-05 04:55 (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 2023-06-06 22:58 (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.

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A Perfect Waste of Time

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