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 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)