loficharm | Beheld // for John

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jonathan sims

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.

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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.

A tiny, muffled gasp escapes Martin as John starts to maneuver him down the hall, hands set at his waist; he eagerly allows himself to be led, only barely enough wherewithal to ensure he doesn't stumble. He draws a shuddering breath that turns quickly to a softly keening moan when in fluid, graceful succession John pulls away, murmurs his playful assessment, and moves back in, this time kissing his throat.

"Ah—" He whimpers, nearly does stumble, ends up gripping onto John's arms for both stability and another, more desperate sort of need. Christ, they need to get inside or they'll wind up drawing the attention of every bloody neighbor they have. With some difficulty, he twists back to look; their door is close, within reach.

"Just let me—" he breathes, no intention of finishing the sentence. One hand curls into the front of John's jacket, the other fumbling once again for his keys. No longer sure if he's leading or being led, he nearly staggers to their door, struggling to let them in.

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."

"Nnh—" Martin huffs in surprise when John's arms encircle him, breath catching in his throat, and he nearly drops the keys. The heat of John's breath against his ear, the brush of his lips — he bites back another whimper, allowing only an awkward grunt as he tries to get the key in the damn lock.

"You're," he says through his teeth, "incorrigible." The key finally slides in and the lock clicks and he nearly topples in as he pushes the door open, squirming to turn around in John's arms and pull him along.

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.

Martin grins, unable to deny it and uninterested in trying, softening into a quiet sigh the moment John pulls him in again. He's not certain they've ever been this desperate for one another, at least not so entirely sober. This, he thinks, is far better than any discussion could have been — not that that couldn't also have been helpful, but Christ, he can't imagine just talking about what happened in Kagura when instead they have this: John smiling like that, drawing him in like that, playing with his collar.

Another soft murmur rises up and out of him, pitched higher as he breaks away, coming up for air, his breath heavy and his cheeks flushed. "John—" he breathes, unfettered and directionless, before sinking forward again to resume the kiss. He reaches up on autopilot to divest himself of his coat, halfway intending to hang it up and then letting it drop to the floor without a second thought. His hands have better occupations, brushing delicately along John's cheek and curling around the back of his neck.

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.

"Mmn," Martin protests the moment John pulls away, not so much at the distance as the way he starts to take off his bag, hands going out to stop him. "Hold on." He reaches for the tape recorder, a coy smirk playing about his lips as his eyes flick up to catch John's. "Allow me," he says sweetly.

He unclips the recorder with as much deftness as something so simple allows, slipping it into the bag before lifting the strap over John's head. It isn't an accident that he treats it almost like one might undress a lover; that isn't an element of what they do together, but only in technicality. The purpose is the same: to make John comfortable, to strip away what they don't need, so they can focus only on each other.

He bends to lay the bag gently aside, treating it with much more care than his own coat, before straightening to help John with that, too.

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.

John draws him in again and Martin smiles against his lips, settling in more comfortably for what he thinks is likely just a moment before they kiss and stumble their way further into the flat. Only John doesn't allow for that sort of momentum, hands set again at his waist, first to turn them about and then to ease Martin the few short steps it takes to put his back against the wall.

Martin breaks the kiss with a startled gasp, blinking up at him with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "Oh," he says, but only barely, his voice a scant, breathless whisper. His hands settle tentatively on John's chest, just below his shoulders, not willing to grip properly just yet. Not for lack of eagerness, as should be evident from his quickened breath and darting eyes, but out of curiosity and anticipation; he doesn't know quite what John intends, or what will be expected of him, and these first moments of uncertainty are particularly delicious in their own right.

Still, he can't resist another playful note, and he murmurs, "Now who's being cheeky," with a shy grin.

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.

Martin tips his head back helplessly as John presses in close, his breath coming thready and shallow against John's ear. A part of him wants to laugh at those teasing remarks, but the only sound that makes it out is more akin to a whimper, breaking off in a little huff when John sucks so briefly at his neck. It takes very little for John to ruin him completely, and John knows it; he's obviously enjoying himself as he traces his fingers through Martin's hair, down his neck, across the softer, sensitive span of his throat, and finally reaches his shirt.

It's clear where he intends to go; he's done this before, opened Martin's shirt up a bit to mark him somewhere that won't be easily seen. He's never done it quite so slowly, though, with such deliberate intent. It's that that has Martin shivering pleasantly beneath John's hands, unable to stop another plaintive whine from slipping out as he kisses him rather desperately.

"Oh, please," he whispers between breaths.

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?"

Martin gasps, sucking in a sharp, startled breath when John's fingers tighten in his hair, the sudden application of even mild force sending a shockwave of arousal through his body. He tips his head back a little further, breath coming in quick and shallow, face flushed and lips parted, utterly helpless under John's wonderfully calm stare. A soft, pleading murmur escapes him, but he doesn't think to answer, because there isn't any answer to give. He squirms a bit, but only a bit, because he's unable to stop himself; he certainly doesn't try to wriggle free. He's in John's hands, which is precisely where he wants to be, and he can only wait, desperately obedient, for John to decide where, indeed, he wants to begin.

John's ridiculously good at this, really; beautifully adept at playing this part, taking control, rendering Martin so completely helpless. Martin could get lost thinking about how lucky he is, if John left any room for thought; as it is, the gentle tug on his hair, the haughty look in his eyes, the smug tone of his voice, it all combines to immobilize him, and it's all he can do to breathe and to meet John's eyes, waiting eagerly for whatever's next.

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.

Martin shivers, a desperate little moan escaping him as John places his hands against the wall, pinning them there with a firm command. Martin presses his palms hard against the wall, easily filling in the sensation of being restrained, and he whines softly as the grip on his hair tightens just so.

"Y-yes," he answers, breathless but intent upon replying when prompted. Another tremor passes through him; he couldn't keep still even if he wanted to, so desperate to be touched, to be allowed to touch himself, and knowing that permission is a ways off yet. He swallows thickly, his eyes darting between John's, unable and unwilling to look anywhere else. Again, he whispers, "Yes."

It isn't just a promise of obedience, this time; it's assurance, confirmation, a plea. It's yes, I want this, I want you, please, compressed into a single fluttering syllable because he doesn't trust himself to offer more than that. The answer is all over him, in his shallow breath, his transfixed gaze, his flushed face, his wild heartbeat. It's the way he twitches and whimpers at the gradually tightening fist in his hair. It's all of him, an all-consuming surrender, an all-consuming trust. Whatever John means to do with him, and he has some guesses on that front, he is ready and eager to receive.

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.

Martin's breath bursts out in a tense huff when John runs a finger along his collarbone, his eyes falling shut as if to guard against being overwhelmed far too soon. Christ, it's good, just that little possessive touch is enough to leave him trembling, and when John tugs him gently to the side, breathes his magnanimous taunts against his neck, a helpless little noise twists out of the back of Martin's throat, a soft but absurdly high-pitched squeak.

"I—I'll do my b—" he starts, a half-considered attempt to reply, but the word evaporates into a moan and a sharp hiss of breath when John starts sucking slow and careful at his throat, and Martin's fingers curl tight against the wall as he struggles to stay where he's been told. He wasn't expecting it to be so difficult to keep still without being explicitly held down, when he so commonly releases this kind of tension with desperate writhing, but in some ways that only enhances the feeling of being trapped. His eyes flicker open again, though he has trouble keeping them that way and he can't really look properly with John bent down close and himself held at this angle. That doesn't matter; he wants to see John, whatever he can, like even after so much he still needs to confirm this is real.

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.

The slight increase of pressure against his shoulder comes as a small surprise, but not an unwelcome one. Martin straightens against the wall with a breathless smile, his pulse quickening, and he sighs softly as John leans back in.

It is difficult to keep his eyes open as John continues wandering along his throat, up the line of his jaw. In the end he succumbs, letting them flutter shut just moments before John arrives at his ear. And then John speaks — gentle, quiet, bewildering, the words a confusion lacking context for the fraction of time it takes for Martin to realize what's just happened, what John's done. The same span it takes John to nip at his earlobe.

"Ah—!" he yelps, and one hand nearly flies up from the wall to grip at John's arm as he's suffused with an overwhelming desire to pull him in close. He only barely manages to override it, twitching and flattening his palm harder against the wall. Christ.

It isn't just the sensation, and that should be obvious from his reaction, far greater than what such a little teasing gesture would normally produce. John has never done this before, never so explicitly Known something like this, certainly never used it with such playful intent. Martin has a fairly good idea of how much shame John harbors over the slip-ups he's had in the past, the times he's Known and Asked too much. That he's used it here, now, to taunt him in such a coy, gentle way, it's... it's a reinforcement he never could have expected of something he will never take for granted: that John trusts him. John trusts him.

Martin leans as close as the hand in his hair will allow, pressing his cheek briefly to John's and breathing against his ear, "Nearly."

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."

John's entire demeanor shifts, his grip relaxing and his free hand cupping around Martin's cheek to hold him, unbelievably delicate, wonderfully tender. Martin stares up at him and feels almost like he could cry at the weight of what passes between them, mostly unspoken but felt, like a reverberation in his chest. His lips part even though he has no idea what he might say, and in the end he can only utter a muffled, needy moan as John kisses him again. He can't stop vocalizing, the desperation showing through in a plaintive hum adjoining every breath, and when John clutches at his hand, drawing it up from the wall — when John whispers Please, like that, there is no hesitation. Martin answers as if it were always meant to be this way.

He wraps both arms around John and pulls him close, one hand splayed against John's back and the other clasping gently around the back of his neck. He doesn't stop kissing John, at once fervent and reverent, breathing him in, for a long time. Only gradually does he begin to slow, do his plaintive moans and murmurs settle and soften, does his desperation turning to something warm and gentle.

"John," he whispers against John's lips, a subtle punctuation, though precisely what sort he isn't wholly sure.

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.

Martin lets out a soft, contented sigh, smiling faint but warm as John leans again him and makes his playful accusation. He blinks his eyes open as if coming out of a dream, looks up just in time for his breath to catch gently in his throat, John's fingers a curling suggestion in his hair. Martin complies immediately, pressing his hands back and tipping his head up, a small murmur shuddering out of him. The mood hasn't entirely left him, and it returns easily enough and in full force, floodwaters around that lovely oasis of tenderness; his fingers flex against the wall and his eyes dart between John's, full of anticipation.

He could be more playful; he could pretend at resistance, request some escalation by some sort of innocuous mischief. But that doesn't always hold appeal. John is good at inhabiting that role; but he's good at lots of things, and right now he clearly has a direction in mind, and Martin has no desire to delay that or draw it out. John will take care of him, and he wants that at John's pace; he wants to be good.

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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