loficharm: (mister blackwood)
Martin Blackwood ([personal profile] loficharm) wrote2020-11-20 06:17 pm
Entry tags:

Beheld // for John

1st October, 2020

The ride home is quiet but edged with a lovely tension that has both of them sat quite close, angled toward each other as they alternate between exchanging shy smiles and ducking their glances elsewhere. Martin reaches out to curl his hand into John's, running his thumb gently over his knuckles, blushing faintly as if this sort of easy tenderness is in anyway novel. But it isn't novelty; it's eagerness. He wants far more than these little, chaste touches; he can't stop thinking about what he wants, how much and how badly. It's all he can do to contain himself.

The moment they're outside the car and moving quickly toward the building, that containment starts to crumble away. Martin lets slip a sheepish little giggle, equal parts amused at himself and excited almost to the point of nervousness, accompanied by a sort of fluttering in his stomach. Ridiculous. Like they're on a first date; like that was only their first kiss.

It had been a bloody good kiss, is the thing, and it carried intentional weight, meant to overwrite and re-imagine what was actually, technically, their 'first.' That weight was not simply imagined, nor did it vanish; they're both still carrying it and being carried by it, propelled along with a mutual, unspoken urgency. He only lets go of John's hand to fumble for his keys, hastening to let them inside, and the moment he does, the moment they're out of the brisk autumn air, he can't even make it to their flat. He pivots on his heel and presses close, pulling John in by the strap of his bag to kiss him again. The tape recorder still sits clipped on, perhaps even still running (Martin hasn't even thought to check since John switched it on in the maze), but they can deal with that shortly. Right now, it's bloody dashing, and Martin means to enjoy himself.
statement_ends: (mister blackwood)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-11-23 02:01 am (UTC)(link)
The distant awareness that they are being ridiculous has sat with John long enough that he can almost ignore it. It doesn't matter as much as the feeling of Martin's hand curled around his, or the weighted glances they exchange, or the assortment of possibilities he's mentally ticking through regarding what they might do once they're back home. He still feels that itch to overwrite their last investigation as thoroughly as possible. Granted, the bar is set in the bloody bathypelagic zone, but that's why he doesn't want to simply clear it so much as he wants to render it obsolete. When they next think of investigations that went a little awry, he'd much rather they thought of this.

Which means this needs to be memorable.

He's running some risk of overthinking it as they make their brisk way to the Bramford. But then Martin giggles, a sheepish, giddy sound that startles John out of his head and back into the moment. He glances over at Martin, an answering smile tugging at his own lips. There's no need to plan anything; he knows what Martin likes, and he wants to make him happy, and that's always been enough. He'll just... play it by ear.

So when Martin unexpectedly rounds on him the moment they're indoors, tugging him into a kiss by the strap of his bag, John meets him eagerly. His hands settle at Martin's waist, and he makes a soft, delightedly scandalized noise in the back of his throat — the closest he can get to 'Mister Blackwood' with his mouth otherwise occupied — before he starts to slowly back Martin down the hall, towards their door. Breaking the kiss, John pauses just long enough to murmur, "Cheeky." And then he presses forward again, ducking a little until his lips find the soft arch of Martin throat.
statement_ends: (smile - lil shit)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-11-23 03:32 am (UTC)(link)
John bites back a grin as Martin twists to find the door, struggling a little with his keys. He could probably make things easier by backing off a little, giving Martin the requisite time and space to at least get the key in the lock. But where's the fun in that?

So John crowds close, instead, curling his arms around Martin's middle and pressing a kiss to his temple. It could almost pass for chaste, but he's quick to undercut any such illusions, nuzzling close enough for his lips to brush against the shell of Martin's ear as he softly says: "Better hurry. I'm getting impatient."
statement_ends: (smile - wee)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-11-23 04:24 am (UTC)(link)
They all but fall through the door when Martin finally wrenches it open, and John snorts out a laugh as he stumbles forward, only just managing to keep his feet under him and avoid pitching right into Martin's chest.

Once he's steadied himself, his hands gripping Martin's arms for balance, he nudges the door shut with his foot. "You love it," he replies, fondly accusing, before pulling Martin into another kiss. He'd joked about being impatient, but now, he takes his time, parting his lips to draw Martin deeper as he toys with the collar of Martin's coat with one hand.
statement_ends: (neutral - hottie)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-11-24 03:00 am (UTC)(link)
It doesn't matter how many times he hears it, John still feels a little thrill when Martin says his name like that: soft and needy. He can't not respond to it, and he presses back into the kiss that follows with a low hum, his hands lifting to frame Martin's face. That lasts until he realizes Martin is taking his coat off, and he makes a vague attempt to help out. He's a little distracted by the more pressing task of continuing to kiss him, so his 'help' amounts to shoving the garment off of Martin's shoulders before he promptly gets sidetracked by the shoulders themselves, his palms sliding over the soft material of Martin's jumper and settling at either side of his collar.

He's still wearing his coat, is the other thing. He should probably do something about that, but he can't remove his jacket without first removing his bag, and he makes another low sound that lands closer to a huff as he draws back a little. "Hang on," he mutters, reaching for the strap.
statement_ends: (sweetie)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-11-24 04:49 am (UTC)(link)
John blinks when Martin stays him, stilling until he realizes what Martin is driving at. And then he smiles, fond and a little sheepish, ducking his head in a gesture that is both acquiescing and helpful as Martin removes first the recorder, and then his bag. It shouldn't seem so significant; they've helped each other with outerwear plenty of times before. But this feels different to the casual courtesy the action usually represents, and John finds himself actually blushing as Martin takes off his coat.

By the time the garment is set aside (with far more care, he can't help but notice, than Martin had bothered with for his own coat), that itch he felt during the ride over has returned full force. He gazes down at Martin with unchecked fondness, but there's something else there, too: anticipation, and a hint of assessment as he considers just how to proceed from here.

The first step, fortunately, is obvious. "Thank you," John murmurs, easing back into the space between them. His hands settle at Martin's waist, and he dips his head to meet Martin in a gentle, leisurely kiss. He takes his time, breathing him in, tasting the faint tang of cider on Martin's lips, and then he slowly pivots them both, backing Martin towards the wall of the entryway.
statement_ends: (smile - lil shit)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-11-24 06:26 pm (UTC)(link)
John arches an eyebrow, trying and failing to hide a smirk. "Well, you know what they say," he says, leaning close but stopping just shy of making contact, his breath ghosting over Martin's skin. "Turnabout is fair play?" He brushes a kiss against Martin's jaw. "I learned it from watching you?" He moves to press another kiss to Martin's neck, this time applying the briefest hint of suction, so light and quick that it almost could have been an accident, offering only the barest hint of what's to come.

Of course, if he's to torment Martin in earnest, he'll need a bit more room to work. John leans back enough to find Martin's mouth again, parting his lips and lifting one hand to comb his fingers through Martin's hair. He brushes a slow arc from Martin's temple down around his ear, then lets his hand trail down his neck, to the hollow of his throat, until he can hook his index finger around the top button of Martin's shirt. He catches the button between his thumb and forefinger, fiddling with it idly, and it's with a faint ping of internal surprise that he feels it come undone. Christ, he thought he might need two hands for that, but if one will do the job, so much the better. He smiles against Martin's lips and moves his hand down to the second button.
statement_ends: (haughty)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-11-26 10:47 pm (UTC)(link)
The second button proves to be a little trickier than the first, but it's not as if there's any hurry. Rather than let himself fumble with it, John just leans into the extra bit of time it takes, pulling back enough to murmur a teasing, "Patience..." before kissing Martin again. When the button does fall open a moment later, John lets his hand drift back up Martin's neck and sink into his hair, his fingertips tracing gently over his scalp as he hums softly against Martin's lips.

And then he breaks the kiss, and his fingers curl into a fist.

"Right," John muses, leaning back enough to give Martin a calm, assessing look. "Where to begin with you?"
statement_ends: (serious business)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-11-27 07:09 am (UTC)(link)
Martin offers no verbal response to John's question (fair enough; it was rhetorical), but his body language speaks volumes. He isn't quite still — he can never seem to restrain himself from wriggling a little — but John can tell he has his undivided attention, and Martin is all but radiating anticipation. A captive audience, in more ways than one.

"First..." John begins, his free hand lifting from Martin's waist and instead closing gently around one of Martin's wrists. Martin's hands are still braced against John's chest, and while that isn't a problem yet, John can easily imagine it becoming a distraction in a minute or two. That said, he doesn't have enough hands to both pin Martin's wrists to the wall and make good on the promise of those undone buttons. He'll just have to improvise.

To that end, he guides Martin's hand down and back until Martin's palm is pressed flat against the wall. "I'll have your hands here," he says as he repeats the move with Martin's other arm, "until I say otherwise. Understood?" He punctuates the question with an incremental tightening of his fist.
statement_ends: (mister blackwood)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-11-27 11:23 pm (UTC)(link)
It isn't difficult to maintain his composure, exactly — they have done this enough, now, for John to have a solid hold on the role he's playing — but he isn't so deeply sunk in it that he can't be touched by Martin's reaction to it all. Not just the alacrity with which he obeys (or promises to, a pledge that may or may not be able to withstand what John ends up doing to him), but the eagerness and the implicit trust Martin displays. That Martin is willing to put himself in John's hands without a second thought... they haven't done this often enough for John to take that for granted. So while he continues to project an aloof air, he can't quite keep his gaze from warming as he looks Martin over and considers his angle of approach.

"Good," he says, lifting his free hand to run a casual, proprietary forefinger along the line of Martin's collar bone and down the V of exposed skin he's just uncovered. He flexes his wrist slightly, just enough to coax Martin into tipping his head a little to one side, and then leans in to nuzzle against the arch of his neck. "The better you behave," he pauses to brush a kiss against Martin's pulse point, "the sooner you'll be free to... attend to yourself."

Perhaps not his best lofty euphemism, but he's learned how to compensate for weaker dialogue. He presses his lips against the soft skin of Martin's throat and begins to suck patiently, gentle enough to not leave any lasting marks. That will have to be earned.
statement_ends: (mister blackwood)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-11-30 03:16 am (UTC)(link)
John wasn't honestly expecting Martin to attempt an answer, and he has to pull back a fraction for a moment, biting back a grin, before he leans back in to resume his ministrations. His free hand lifts to fiddle with Martin's collar, as if in consideration, before shifting over to his shoulder. He doesn't quite push, but he applies a little more force than he otherwise would, a subtle press against the wall, a reminder to remain still.

Perhaps it's because his mind is already focused on what Martin wants that he gets a vague sense of something, or perhaps he's attuned to being watched — or some combination of the two. But the awareness of Martin's intermittent gaze and the reasoning behind it unfurls in his mind, and he hesitates again, this time because he's just... touched. That, and he understands the impulse; there are times when he can hardly believe this is still real, either.

But 'maudlin' isn't the mood they're going for, so John works his patient way up to the hinge of Martin's jaw. "Real enough for you?" he murmurs, punctuating the question with a light nip against Martin's earlobe.
statement_ends: (profile - soff)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-01 05:23 am (UTC)(link)
It was an impulse; he often chases those, in situations like this, without giving too much thought to the implications. Which isn't to say he's careless, more that his chief concern is whether it'll wind Martin up or not. Anything beyond that is secondary, and often better disregarded — the last thing either of them need is for him to start overthinking.

But some implications can't be shunted aside so casually, and it isn't until Martin responds well that John appreciates that he could have responded badly. Not that he should have, or even that it was likely — Martin has never begrudged him these little accidents before, and not every unvoiced sentiment feels like a secret — but that the press of his cheek and the ready rejoinder are not things John should take for granted. That they are the result of far more than just a willingness to play along.

He can't take them for granted, and he can't bear to show his appreciation by way of the light torments he's subjected Martin to so far. So he draws back, meeting Martin's gaze for a breathless beat. The hand that was fisted in his hair relaxes, the other lifts to frame his face, cradling him as if he is some unbearably precious object. "Martin..." he starts, his gaze darting between Martin's eyes as he struggles to translate his swell of emotions into words, to assemble a sentence that might adequately convey how loved, how safe Martin makes him feel, and how much John wants to give him.

And then he loses patience, both with himself and with the whole bloody concept of speech, and abandons it all in favor of dipping his head to kiss him, deep and almost desperate. He kisses him until he has to pull back for air, and then he grasps a little clumsily for Martin's hand and draws it up, depositing it on his own shoulder in implicit invitation, underscored with a whispered, "Please."
statement_ends: (mister blackwood)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-06 08:47 pm (UTC)(link)
Martin's arms curl around him, drawing him in, and John sighs quietly as he lets himself be drawn. Someone else might describe it as a surrender, but it doesn't feel like one to him; 'surrender' implies that something was contested, and they have worked too hard to eschew such ideas. The press of Martin's hands isn't possessive, and John does not wonder where they might wander. He doesn't offer himself while harboring any uncertainty about how much Martin will presume to take. He knows the desperate little noises Martin is making won't translate to desperate little actions. He knows he's safe.

Things slow the way they usually do, gradual and organic, until John finds himself resting his forehead against Martin's as he catches his breath. Well. Not maudlin, at least, but he can't help cracking a faint smile over just how far off-track they've managed to veer. "You," he murmurs, punctuating it with a brief, gentle kiss, "have distracted me."

Not distracted enough to forget the original trajectory, though. One hand is already in Martin's hair, and he curls his fingers deliberately, though he doesn't tighten them just yet. "Hands on the wall," he instructs, even as his thumb gently skates over Martin's cheek.
statement_ends: (haughty)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-08 03:45 am (UTC)(link)
John leans back a little, one hand dropping to toy with Martin's collar. In no apparent hurry, he draws the collar aside and then lets it settle back, his gaze cool and assessing, as if choosing just the right spot to begin working is his sole focus. It's not all for show, either. He has played things quite safe on prior occasions, making sure that any marks he leaves behind will be fully hidden by whatever shirt Martin might choose to wear. Now, he's thinking of flirting a bit more with the border where something might just get spotted, from the right angle, if Martin isn't careful. Nothing too risky — one embarrassing week at the office was enough — but something just risky enough to make life interesting.

The corners of his mouth curl upward once he's chosen a spot, and he tugs Martin's collar well out of the way, so he'll have plenty of room to work. "Right," he murmurs, before leaning in to blaze a slow trail down Martin's neck, his fingers still twisted around Martin's hair in implicit readiness. He pauses to suck gently at his pulse point, testing as much as teasing. He's not sure how well Martin will be able to keep his hands still without physical assistance, and he may as well get a sense of it now, before he really needs to focus elsewhere.

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