loficharm | soft // for John

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soft // for John

Martin is happy; he's happy so much of the time that it really isn't very novel anymore, that it's become a part of his normal, day-to-day existence. But even without being new, it is never dull; it will never be something he's inclined to take for granted.

It's been a pleasantly quiet evening after an ordinary workday; they've had dinner and are now settled onto the sofa, leaning against each other while John reads and Martin fidgets with his phone, idly seeking a podcast they might both enjoy. He might've gotten up to putter around and clean ages ago, but as he'd melted into a cozy slouch, The Bishop had seen fit to clamber onto him and curl up on his stomach, and that had been that.

He doesn't mind. The cat is warm and purring, and it means John has some absent occupation while remaining close, that he can pet The Bishop with one hand while holding the book in the other. It's really quite perfect.

And then The Bishop stirs, following his own inscrutable whims as he gets up and stretches in place, all of his weight now pressing down into the soft give of Martin's belly.

"Oh—" Martin winces as he waits for the cat to decide where to move. "Okay," he says, his voice a bit strained. "Yes, carry on, please."

The Bishop answers with an unconcerned trill and takes his time before deciding to move on, stepping down to the sofa and curling up on the other side of it instead. Martin huffs at the sudden release of pressure and laughs faintly. "He's chosen the sofa over me," he says, gazing at the little lump of cat; he looks like he's already falling asleep. "Don't know whether if I should be offended or not."

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John still wouldn't describe himself as cuddly, per se, but his tolerance for casual physical contact has grown over the past few months. It's still far easier with a distraction or two: a book to read, a movie to watch, something that makes leaning against Martin merely incidental, like background noise. But as background noise goes, it's grown from something he might've classified as tolerable to something he can quietly enjoy, secure in the knowledge that it doesn't have to be more than it is.

It certainly helps that Martin is pleasant to lean against. John may be all bones and angles, but Martin is soft and warm, and it's no surprise at all when The Bishop takes up residence on Martin's stomach. Cats know comfort, and John can only assume that would make Martin's stomach prime real estate. John reaches over to pet him more or less automatically, alternating between idle scratches and letting his hand rest on the cat's fur, only pulling his nose out of his book when The Bishop gets to his feet.

"Rude," John scolds, lifting his hand as The Bishop stretches, the cat's paws pressing down against Martin's belly in a manner that John knows, from ample experience, cannot be comfortable. "Come on, now," he says, giving The Bishop's hind legs a light, purposeful nudge to encourage him towards some sort of action, which eventually takes the form of him stepping off of Martin and curling up barely a foot away on an empty stretch of cushion.

John echoes Martin's snort. "There's no accounting for taste, I suppose." He smoothes his hand over Martin's belly, as if to counter the far less pleasant pressure of a small paw with a lot of relative weight behind it. Honestly, it's almost as pleasant as petting the cat had been, and John continues his ministrations even as he leans out a little to give The Bishop an unimpressed look. "It's certainly a downgrade."

Martin smiles at John's light assistance and his droll remark, fully prepared to settle back in with his phone, when John's hand comes down on him, instead, running gently but with clear intent over the curve of him. He makes note of it to The Bishop, which should be charming and funny except Martin has frozen up, reflexive and thoughtless, holding his breath as if waiting for something.

He's grown quite used to John touching him, even in ways that he never would have expected, but this is new territory, and it's... John does it so casually, when to Martin it is anything but. He's not even wholly sure why — there are several elements to draw on, a mix of bad experiences, internalized assumptions, and the sheer bloody novelty — but it's too sudden and too much of a mess for him to make sense of it on the spur of the moment.

One thing is certain: it is an unexpectedly nice feeling, and beneath the confusion and surprise there is a part of him that wishes he could have just relaxed into it and skipped over the conversation that now inevitably has to happen, because he was too slow to course correct his instincts and John has certainly noticed.

"Er..." is all he manages to fumble out.

Martin goes very still beside him. It isn't a complete shock — John realizes, as it happens, that he's never really touched Martin like this before, never stroked his belly with any deliberation. Granted, it's not like he's avoided it, either, but any contact made so far has been incidental, like when they hug. He's never gone for Martin's belly just for the sake of it, before. Martin's surprise is understandable.

But this isn't the momentary hesitation of someone who was caught a little off-guard. Martin doesn't relax, the tension doesn't disperse. He just stammers uncertainly, and John lifts his hand, leaning back a little to give Martin a bit more space.

"Sorry," he says, "should I not...?" He should have asked before, really; it hadn't occurred to him that he was entering fraught territory, but they didn't make it this far by casually presuming one another's boundaries.

John lifts his hand away, and Martin releases some of his tension with a quiet sigh. He's not exactly relieved by the loss of contact, but it does make it easier to let his thoughts settle.

"I..." He still struggles to speak, though, and holds his breath for a moment as he tries to find what he means to say. "It—it's okay, if you want to, it just... surprised me."

That isn't all, and that should be obvious, and he holds the silence for a bit longer before he ventures: "I—I guess it's also just... it's been a really long time since anyone... wanted to, and the only people who ever wanted to, i-it wasn't always..." Christ, why can't he string a complete sentence together? He huffs impatiently and buries his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, I don't know why this is... it's just hard to talk about. But it felt good. Just now. And I... I know you don't... you wouldn't..."

He can't even finish that. He keeps his face in his hands and lets out an awkward, muffled laugh that skews somewhere between exasperation and nervousness.

Christ, that's not a promising explanation, to the extent that it explains anything at all. The hints Martin drops about his prior relationships are often like this: heavy with unpleasant implications. Sometimes John can parse them easily enough. Other times — like now — he isn't quite sure how to fill in the blanks.

He thinks he understands a little. The idea that people haven't wanted to touch Martin that way isn't wholly shocking, even if it was, in John's opinion, their loss. His own opinions about aesthetics notwithstanding, he's aware of the broader trends regarding what is considered attractive, and he knows society at large doesn't permit you to forget your failings — especially if you're paying attention. Christ knows what sort of bullshit Martin's had to deal with on that front. It has undoubtedly been worse than what John has dealt with due to his scars, which is probably the nearest frame of reference he could grasp at. He can't imagine it.

He could Know it, if he wanted, but the convenience wouldn't outweigh the violation. Perhaps 'violation' is a strong term for it when Martin is clearly trying to communicate something specific and finding it a challenge, as opposed to trying to keep something to himself. But still, it's not the sort of thing John wants to risk becoming easy, or habitual. Better to just wait, and let Martin work through it at his own speed. Martin has earned his patience many times over, and John is finding it... easier, at least, to tamp down that part of him that craves the direct simplicity of Looking.

The struggle is still difficult to watch, though. John frowns a little, his brow furrowed, before reaching over and brushing his fingers along Martin's wrist, trying to coax one of his hands away from his face and into his own. "You know I wouldn't what?" he prompts gently.

John's effort to draw his hands down is gentle, but Martin can't quite match that gentility when he drops his hands, the motion abrupt, as if in order to speak he needs to embody the act of ripping off a plaster. "Treat me like I'm a—an accessory," he manages at last. He sighs, supposing he really ought to contextualize that, and turns to face John properly, belatedly reaching out to take his hand as invited. It's difficult to meet his eyes; he's nervous, part of him feeling like he's spun this whole drama out of nothing when John was making a simple, playful gesture with no specific intent behind it. But they're here now, and there's nothing to be done but go into it.

"Most everyone I've been with before now felt one of two ways about my... size," he says, his gaze falling to somewhere around John's shoulder. "Usually it was like... something to fix. I mean, that's not just the men I dated, that was... friends, doctors, my mother... everyone. The whole world." He shrinks in on himself a little, feeling horribly overexposed. "Nobody wants to look like this, because nobody wants you when you look like this. Tha-that's not true, I know it's not true, but it's... it's what you grow up with, it's there all the time. It's what a lot of people think, and they expect you to think it too, so they feel like they can just say whatever they want about it, make comments, tell me I should lose weight or eat better, or less, or... or whatever. Most of them meant well, just..." He looks away, though he keeps his fingers curled around John's.

"A-and then there were a few who... who liked it. I don't think they really liked me. It was like..." He fidgets uncomfortably, not sure how to put this without getting swallowed up by the ensuing mortification. "Like I was a, a toy, or... cute, like a little fat dog." His expression darkens. "And that actually felt much worse than just... just being undesirable."

He shakes his head, needing to pull himself out of those memories, needing quite desperately to wind this down. "N-none of that really matters because you're not like any of them, you'd never... I know you think that I'm, that I look... y-you like the way I look, for me, and... and that feels good. It feels really good. So none of that matters. It's just why I reacted like... like that."

Martin does lower his hands, but the gesture is sharper than John expects, and he draws back a little. It's not an outright retreat; his hand is still hovering in the air between them, implicitly available. He doesn't want to close himself off, or give Martin any reason to feel guilty on top of everything else.

And then Martin talks of being an accessory, and John goes still, his stomach clenching. Even within the context of Martin insisting that John would never do such a thing, it's appalling to think that he just did something that reminded Martin of times that he'd been... what objectified? Christ. Of course that hadn't been his intention — he'd only thought to soothe, with the simple, tactile pleasure of it being a nice bonus — but what use are his intentions when he'd rocketed Martin right into some highly unpleasant memories?

Martin takes his hand and begins to elaborate, and John slowly runs his thumb over Martin's knuckles as he listens, both encouraging and apologetic.

It's a lot to take in. The first part of it isn't terribly surprising. It's more or less in line with what John had gathered from Martin's initial protest: that people had taken issue with his size before, and that such a direct acknowledgment of his middle had stirred up some miserable associations. The second part, though, that throws him, leaving him caught between bewilderment and indignation.

Aesthetic appreciation does not come naturally to him. Which isn't to say he's incapable of it, only that it's low on his list of concerns and requires more conscious effort than most people seem to employ. But he loves the way Martin looks, loves it because he loves Martin and because 'how Martin looks' is an inseparable aspect of him. He cannot imagine loving Martin but seeking to change a part of him that has never seemed particularly changeable over the years that they've known each other (and god knows there were always far more pressing threats to their collective health than their bloody BMIs), nor can he imagine liking the shape of him without caring about the man underneath.

So Martin is right, when he says John isn't like that. But he isn't right when he says it doesn't matter.

"Of course it matters," John replies. "My intentions are only worth so much, and if—if touching you that way just stirs up all that, then... well, it's not as if I need to. I just..." he shrugs, ducking his head, feeling as if he ought to verbalize the difference even if Martin already seems to understand it. "From a, a... tactile perspective, it was... you just feel nice," he finally blurts, cheeks prickling. Right, yes, very eloquent. John sighs, then lifts his gaze, meeting Martin's eyes. "But it's not worth stirring up bad memories, if that's what I was doing."

Martin looks back, finally, tentatively seeking John's eyes, when he starts to speak. His evident sheepishness is strangely bolstering; at least Martin's not the only one struggling to express himself here. But it's what he says that is far more arresting: not only his faintly blushing admission that Martin just feels nice, but that it's not worth it if it brings these memories back. This was exactly what Martin didn't want, only his frustration is a bit stymied by the alluring but probably unhelpful desire to just pull John into his arms.

"I—n-no," he stammers eventually, both his hands going to grip at John's now. "No, that's not—Christ, John, the last thing I want is for all that to direct us now." The idea of it might make him angry, if he let it — that John can't touch him however he likes, whenever he likes, just because he let someone feel him up in a nightclub when he was lonely and drunk and the way they talked about his body made his skin crawl. "I just wanted you to know why I—b-but I don't want that to be it."

He softens a bit, struggling to rein himself in enough to say what he bloody well means, and lifts one of his hands to John's cheek. "John, you... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and you make me feel safe, and I want that. I don't want what... what some absolute twat made me feel years ago to be the last time anyone ever..."

He heaves out another sigh and lets his hand drop, instead pitching forward to rest his head on John's shoulder. This is exhausting, but it's too bloody important not to finish. "I just... never told anyone about that, and I, I felt like you should know. But I..."

He hesitates, needing to say this right, letting his thumb wander evenly, comfortingly over the ridges of John's knuckles. "I liked it. It startled me, but I... I liked it. It felt nice to me, too."

After all that, this feels like the hardest thing of all to admit, which seems backwards somehow. But he stays hidden, curled up close with his forehead still braced against John's shoulder, his heart hammering as his cheeks and ears heat up.

John listens, his brow still furrowed, as Martin takes things in a direction he hadn't quite anticipated. They both brought their respective histories with them when they started this, and some of the boundaries Martin respects so scrupulously are a direct result of unpleasant experiences John has had in the past. He wouldn't take it as a failing or a defeat to return the favor, not when Martin's safety and comfort are just as important as his own.

But then Martin lays a hand on his cheek, and insists that he does feel safe. That he doesn't want John to check himself on account of what someone else did, that he doesn't want something so unpleasant to be decisive, too. And John can understand that. Christ, one of the most unanticipated but rewarding side effects of Martin's respect for his boundaries has been John's ability to subsequently alter them. That he hasn't been entirely beholden to an outdated status quo. Martin deserves that too, surely.

John exhales softly as Martin's head drops onto his shoulder, and turns to kiss his temple more or less reflexively. When Martin falls silent after that final admission, all but radiating heat against John's neck, John lifts his free hand to brush his fingers through Martin's hair.

"I'm glad you told me," he says. And he is: whether Martin wants to be beholden to those memories are not, it's important context to have. He'd like to be able to express an appreciation for how Martin looks without unwittingly echoing what some arsehole said to him years ago ('cute' probably wouldn't have been the word he would have gone for, anyway, but it's far lower on the mental list, now), and he'd like to be able to touch him without making it fraught by accident.

"And I'm—I'm glad you liked it," he adds, his tone considerably more shy. "I, er... wouldn't mind doing it again, sometime." A bit inane, but it gets the point across. At any rate, John doesn't make any moves in that direction, one of his hands still sifting gently through Martin's hair in a more customary sort of comfort, the other still curled around Martin's palm.

Martin finally starts to relax under John's gentle ministrations, those long fingers carding delicately through his hair sending him into a gradual boneless slump. He hums softy in response to John's rather shy remark, a warm smile spreading across his features. He waits a few moments, letting himself drift a bit, before he pulls himself upright and looks at John directly.

There is still some residual nervousness about the whole thing, uneasiness over those stirred-up memories, anxiety over having pitched the conversation so sharply down this path, even after hearing John is glad to know these things. But none of it can stand up to the way John looks at him, or how soothing his hands are, or how earnest his words. That thorny tangle of insecurity that used to govern Martin's life is no longer thick enough to overtake him; with every conversation like this, a little more of it unravels, making space for something else. For him to feel happy; for him to feel safe.

"Good," he simply says, studying John for just a moment longer before leaning in to brush a kiss against his lips. "I, erm... I'd like that."

And he would; really, he'd prefer John just go back to it now, before either of them have a chance to overthink it or get cold feet, before the moment passes by entirely. Martin doesn't like the vague uncertainty of sometime, much as he knows it's just conversational. He imagines just launching back into it now might seem rather presumptuous to John, but he can too easily imagine the alternative: that they settle into a cozy status quo, not awkward, but... different. Subdued, maybe. That, he thinks, would be something to regret.

He looks down, unable to go on meeting John's eyes. His breath hitches as he considers saying something more and thinks better of it; his fingers twitch around John's for a moment as he tries to imagine feeling comfortable enough with this to be impulsive. He's not sure he does yet, but he wants to. And maybe there is something to the notion of giving himself a little push, as well as taking the responsibility on his own shoulders.

He keeps his gaze averted and his breath held as he takes John's hand, tugging gently, tentatively, until their fingers brush up against the curve of his belly. Immediately and with an abrupt surge of embarrassment, he lifts both his hands away, leaving John to decide what's next.

So much for taking responsibility. Maybe this was stupid; maybe it's weird. Martin waits, timid and skittish, still not quite daring to look back up.

Edited 2020-05-31 01:12 (UTC)

John doesn't think he'll ever tire of the distinct feeling of Martin relaxing beneath his hands. Whatever tension the conversation had spawned slowly melts away, and the weight of Martin's head on his shoulder transitions from something timid and embarrassed to something more content. It's nice, and it's well established, and John finds himself relaxing in turn, relieved to be back on familiar ground.

Martin leans back to look at him, and then leans in for a kiss, and John meets it with a soft hum. His hand drifts down a little, his fingertips still sunk in Martin's hair even as the pad of his thumb caresses his jaw. A sizable part of him wants to just touch Martin's belly again immediately, but he hesitates. Doing so right away feels presumptuous, somehow, but on the other hand, not doing it feels rather ridiculous in the wake of both of them plainly stating that they like the idea. And if he doesn't do it now, he'll just end up fretting over the appropriate circumstances in which to try it again, and odds are he'll end up crawling up his own arse about it and losing his nerve entirely.

Martin drops his gaze, his breath hitching as if he means to speak, though no actual words follow. Then he tugs on John's hand, hesitant and careful, until their clasped fingers brush against his stomach. Martin lifts his hands away as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, and John blinks, startled, before a slow, fond smile spreads across his face. That settles things, doesn't it? Still, he keeps his own movements slow and deliberate: the backs of his fingers brushing against the soft curve of him as he uncurls them, his palm pressing flush against the fabric of Martin's shirt, feeling the warmth of the skin beneath. He curls his fingers just once, careful and experimental; his thumb sweeps in a gentle arc. It really is quite nice, to the point where he feels a bit ridiculous for enjoying it so much — a simple pleasure, with a heavy emphasis on simple. But if Martin likes it, too, and if it's helping to overwrite some lackluster memories, then maybe that's all that matters. Maybe he can be cognizant of potential concerns without descending into overthinking.

Regardless, they have an established habit of checking in when trying new things, so John lifts his gaze back to Martin's face, combing his fingers back through his soft hair. So much softness, Christ, he feels spoiled. "Okay?" he murmurs.

Martin finally breathes, shuddering a bit as John follows his lead, his palm stroking over him, slow and careful. Christ, it does feel good; it's so incredibly comforting in ways he never really anticipated that it isn't long before the warmth and affection of it overrides any natural mortification that might otherwise rise up. Martin lists toward John without even thinking about it, letting out a soft, happy murmur, and he finally looks up to find John smiling at him.

"Y-yeah," he says shyly, ducking his head down again as though overwhelmed. He is, a little, but it isn't a bad thing; he shifts a little closer to John, nuzzling against his cheek. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Okay," John echoes, his smile widening as Martin nuzzles against him. He turns his head a fraction to sneak a light kiss to Martin's cheek, then lets his hand start to wander a little. Not much — exploration isn't really the intention — but some, his hand stroking a slow path around towards Martin's side before drifting to its starting point and repeating the process. He tries to be careful: applying just enough pressure that it doesn't veer towards tickling, endeavoring not to move his hand in a way that too closely emulates how he might pet the cat.

The effect is rather similar, though: there's something undeniably soothing about touching Martin this way. It's just... nice, as he said. John hums quietly, his other hand dropping to Martin's shoulder as he turns to nuzzle against his hair, far too cozy to indulge the distant suspicion that this is all getting a bit saccharine. It doesn't matter. All that matters is Martin, warm and soft beneath his hands and listing comfortably against him.

This could all start to feel a bit ridiculous if Martin let himself think about it for too long. Fortunately, it is fairly easy not to. Self-consciousness is remote, while comfort and fondness sit at the fore, and the longer John touches him, the easier it is to lose himself in it. He's not expecting to feel so tired, but he had sort of worked himself up in a very short span of time, only to come back down under so much gentle affection. Letting himself dissolve into it is easy, the simple pleasure of it intoxicating.

It does mean, however, that he's starting to doze off. He tips forward slowly, easing his weight back against John, looping his arms around him in a loose clutch. He hums out something that might have been words had he the wherewithal; he wants to pull John closer but he's too tired to put any strength behind it. He's far too cozy for all that. Maybe... maybe in just a minute or two.

It isn't too long before Martin is leaning more heavily against him than mere comfort would suggest, his arms coming round him in a loose embrace. John really hadn't anticipated it being soothing enough to put Martin to sleep, though he supposes that's no bad thing. Winding Martin up is its own sort of fun, but the shine hasn't worn off the simpler pleasure of just making him happy, or helping him relax. Especially given how anxious and awkward things were a few minutes ago, this is an excellent change of pace.

Granted, the timing of it all could be better — it's just early enough that it feels a little absurd to suggest going to bed. But then again, it's not as if they had any other pressing business to attend to.

John leaves off stroking Martin's belly in favor of sliding his hands around to Martin's back, pulling him a bit closer. "Ready to turn in?" he asks, fond but laced with humor.

Martin wrinkles his nose at the question, his eyes narrowing into a dubious squint, not that it's visible with him curled up like this. "'m wide awake," he protests. "Dunno what you're on about."

He could just fall asleep, though, and he has little motive to rouse himself at this point. And it's barely even dark out. Christ, this is embarrassing. He burrows in closer against John's chest and groans softly before he mumbles, "Would it be absolutely pathetic if I was?"

"I see," John says with all the gravity he can muster as he rubs Martin's back. "My mistake."

He can't help but smile at Martin's eventual amendment, though, and he presses another kiss to Martin's hair and gives him a gentle squeeze. "I don't think my sleep schedule permits me to throw any proverbial stones," he replies evenly. He gives Martin's back one last rub before bracing his hands on Martin's arms, ready to help him to his feet. "Come on, love, let's get you sorted," he says, coaxing Martin to his feet and then gently steering him towards the hall with an arm around his shoulders.

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soft // for John

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cw: internalized fatphobia, references to body shaming & fetishization

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