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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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 2023-05-13 02:45 (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 2023-05-14 05:44 (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 2023-05-15 17:44 (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."

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