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 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.

Of course it isn't as easy as just being good. It rarely is; John seems to delight the challenge as much as Martin does, and the quiet placidity of his gaze as he toys lightly with Martin's collar feels like the surface of a lake about to be breached. Martin holds his breath, waiting, though he's not sure what implied sensation will happen first — a sharper tug on his collar, a closed fist in his hair, lips and teeth against his throat. He can't quite stop himself exhaling eventually, thin and slow, carrying the faintest hint of a whimper, and then, as if precisely timed—

Martin sucks in a gasp when John pulls his collar aside and leans in, meandering a line of soft kisses down his neck and sucking softly before he's even reached his target. Martin lets out a sharp, plaintive cry, his fingers curling against the wall as if in search of something to grip onto. Christ, this is difficult, holding still without being held. He can't quite stop himself from wriggling ever so slightly, more a subtle shifting of his hips and a desperate little quiver than anything, as he whispers on a stuttering breath, "Please—"

When John had whispered that word, Martin hadn't hesitated to give him what he wanted. It would be rude not to return the courtesy — and really, they've passed the point where John might've kept drawing things out just for the sake of it. So the moment John relents that teasing pressure against Martin's neck, he tightens his grip on Martin's hair, his fingers snarled close against his scalp. His wrist flexes, the tug not sharp, but still insistent, tipping Martin's head a little to one side, as if to give himself as broad a canvas as possible.

Not that he strictly needs one. He's already chosen the perfect place to begin. John dips his head lower and seals his lips around a spot just below Martin's collarbone and a bit left of his sternum, this time sucking with deliberate force and purpose. The other little marks he's made will be gone within the hour; he intends for this one to last.

"Ah-hah—!" Martin gasps as John pulls him into place, gentle but firm, as he starts in just below Martin's collarbone, as he starts marking him properly. His fingers tense and twitch as he presses his hands hard against the wall, bracing himself to stop from moving. Because he can't move — not with John's hand in his hair, John's mouth on him. Christ, it's good, so good he suffers a brief, abrupt moment of self-awareness, normally the worst thing that could happen at a time like this, but now — all he can think is that John is doing this to him and there's still enough remnants of that old long-standing conviction that this would never happen, could never happen, that the still-surprising reality of it is enough to turn him on all the more. He cries out sharply, an uncontrollable shudder running through him, the only disruption of his desperately maintained stillness.

"Oh, God," he moans, wanting, needing to touch himself, and it feels so soon for that but John knows he can't last long like this, and he sucks in a sharp breath before struggling to ask: "C-can I—please, John, I need to—"

Martin's hands stay pressed to the wall, and John relents with a grin, nuzzling against him for a moment. If he was physically holding Martin down, he might try to draw this out a bit more, keeping him pinned while he continued to tease him. But with Martin's own force of will being the only thing keeping his hands in place, it seems kinder to grant permission than set him up for failure.

"Whatever you need," John murmurs magnanimously, kissing two of Martin's freckles in slow succession. Then he drifts to another spot, a little more to the left — and more easily hidden — and clamps down again, drawing Martin's skin between his teeth.

A soft, involuntary whine slips out when John pauses his work, and Martin holds his breath for a second, releasing it in a frantic huff the moment John grants him the permission he needs. He struggles to get his trousers open and reach in without causing any real disruption, letting out a thin, strained cry when John bites down on a new spot, but finally, with a warm hand wrapped around himself, some of that tension slips away. He could just melt against John if he wanted to, but instead he slumps back against the wall, taking care to keep a bit of distance between them. He settles into a rhythm matched by his own short, shallow breaths, every exhale coming out as another plaintive moan or whimper. He isn't going to last long — doesn't want to last long, doesn't want to drag this out when instead he can have a swift release and then collapse into bed with John happy and warm beside him. But still he doesn't rush, lets himself arrive there naturally, the slow upward tilt of his head the one concession to that latent desire to push closer, to be held. Not yet; not 'til after.

"John—" he whispers, his breath stuttering in his throat as a sharp, telltale shiver moves up his spine. "Oh, Christ, I'm—"

He reaches out with his free hand to grip John's arm, gently holding him at bay as he half-crumples over on himself, gasping and shuddering until he's spent. He remains there a few seconds more until he leans forward and lets his head come to an awkward rest against John's shoulder, still curled over and breathing hard. "Mnh," he says, a start to something more substantive hampered by the inevitable wave of warm, pleasant exhaustion.

Once Martin is underway, John trades marking him for milder torments: nipping lightly at his neck and giving his hair brief, teasing tugs. Winding him up isn't the goal so much as escorting him over the proverbial finish line, and John has done so often enough, now, for it to be surprisingly comfortable territory. It doesn't hurt that even now, Martin is careful, slumping back against the wall instead of crowding close, demanding nothing. It helps, too, that he's devoid of the tension John's come to associate with him trying to draw things out on purpose. All of it conspires to leave John feeling more at ease than the John of several months ago would ever have thought such circumstances would allow, and he continues his almost idle ministrations until Martin seizes his arm and curls in on himself with a gasp.

John draws back at once, though only a little, sticking close enough to offer support. The grip he has on Martin's hair relaxes, and when Martin's head comes to rest on his shoulder, John's hand naturally curls into a fond, supportive cradle around the back of Martin's neck, his thumb rubbing a gentle arc against the base of his skull. His other hand lifts to brace against Martin's elbow, and he chuckles softly in response to Martin's wordless assessment.

"Happy to oblige," he drawls, turning his head and pressing a kiss to Martin's hair (now considerably more tousled than it was when they came in).

It is so natural, the way John shifts his attention, eases him gently through it, holds him as he comes down. Martin feels, as he sometimes does in the aftermath, like he might cry; how fortunate he is, how happy, how loved. He tried to gingerly mend a bad memory and it led not to discomfort and disaster but to this — to John holding him, patient and untroubled, kissing his hair.

Martin desperately needs to attend to himself in a less enjoyable sense, now; every time this happens he thinks they've really got to get better about prepping, but then that never feels worth it in the moment. He's not sorry at all it happened this way, but he does feel a touch sheepish now, and he wants to get cleaned up before anything else happens. He's still a bit shaky, though, so he doesn't rush with this, either; he groans softly as he pulls himself upright, lifts his head to meet John's eyes and holds his gaze for a moment. He smiles, faint and fond and without a trace of self-consciousness, and leans in to kiss him properly, brief but every bit as tender as he deserves.

"I love you," he murmurs with gentle finality before pulling back. Then he sighs, coming out of his warm haze enough to extricate himself a bit awkwardly and cut directly for the WC.

"I'll just be a moment," he says, waving John vaguely toward the bedroom. "Go and get comfortable."

It isn't meant to imply anything — he has some vague notions of what might come next, perhaps giving John a little massage or just kissing him a whole hell of a lot. It's getting easier not to worry about it so much, when he knows John still has trouble answering the question of what he might want. So there need not be anything specific. Comfortable is just what it means: Martin wants to have a bloody lie-in, and he expects John is on more or less the same page.

He doesn't even bother getting a change of clothes, just leaves his things in the hamper and steps into the shower only long enough to clean himself up. What with the jaunt through a bloody corn field, he probably could stand to have a proper wash, but he's not interested in getting his hair wet now, or being away from John for longer than is absolutely necessary. So he dries himself off briskly and wanders back into the bedroom with the towel wrapped around his waist.

He finds John waiting for him on the bed and offers him another smile, this one a bit shy for no good reason, before turning away to get changed. He pulls on his pajama bottoms and lets the towel drop, and then he pauses in front of the mirror before putting on his shirt.

Martin very rarely stops in front of the mirror; he doesn't like to look at himself most days. His relationship to his own reflection is utilitarian and almost non-existent when he isn't dressed. But he stops now, no thought to spare all the parts of himself he doesn't like; all he can see are the marks John left standing bright against his skin. Two of them, perfect little red bruises just below his collarbone and off to the side, one just on the edge of where his collar might rest. A slight touch of danger there, so to speak, but only enough to make it exciting; they'll stay hidden so long as he's careful. A little secret between them, a sign of something special, something John did for him, because he wanted to.

It is an old refrain, but never a tired one, as far as Martin is concerned — that no one else has ever done this for him, ever loved him this much, taken such care with and of him. He has never before been given hickeys he could admire, and this is still new enough that it feels momentous every time. Martin finds himself grinning outright, still scarcely aware of himself even as he reaches up to brush a finger delicately along one of the marks.

Edited 2020-12-14 12:48 (UTC)

One slightly unfortunate result of doing things so impulsively is that it doesn't leave Martin much time to recover himself before discomfort starts to become an issue. It isn't long before he straightens with a groan, and John takes in the rumpled, rather debauched looking state of him: hair tousled, collar open and still a bit askew. His own smile is equal parts sheepish and smug, but he softens as he meets Martin's gaze, and hums quietly against his lips when Martin leans in to kiss him.

"Love you, too," he replies, before stepping back to let Martin toddle off to the bathroom. He makes his own way into the bedroom, where he changes out of his public-facing outfit and into soft pajama bottoms and one of his lighter jumpers, something far more befitting the lounging he suspects is going to make up the rest of their day. Then he settles himself on the bed to wait, leaning back against the headboard and already feeling rather cozy.

It's a faint surprise when Martin wanders in wearing just a towel, though John realizes a beat later that it was his only option: he hadn't grabbed anything before heading into the WC. John could have brought him something, and the missed opportunity gnaws at him until he sees Martin's smile, which is a little shy, but not uncomfortable.

And there's no clearly-defined reason why it should be. It isn't something they've discussed. Martin has changed in John's presence before, though it's always been quick and a little bit furtive — not unlike the way John had changed before Martin had expressed a desire to look at him. And John has never mirrored that desire, largely for the simple reason that he's never felt it. Aesthetics are less important to him, and whatever idle curiosity he might have felt about what Martin looks like had always seemed like a small thing to set against the possibility of Martin's discomfort. Once Martin turns to rummage through their drawers, John lets his gaze slide over to the wall, politely averted.

Not so averted that he doesn't note Martin's hesitation in front of the mirror, though, and his gaze flicks back over in spite of himself. He sees Martin's reflected grin, broad and so entirely unselfconscious that John feels an immediate lurch of guilt for having observed it at all. Christ, can't he just let the poor man have a moment in peace? He bullies his gaze to the relatively safer territory of Martin's back, confident (or at least hopeful) that there will be little to see there.

Except he's wrong: the freckles that he's seen poking out of Martin's collar are, as it turns out, only the straggling edge of a broad dusting that covers Martin's back and shoulders. John straightens with a blink, a charmed smile tugging at his lips and all thoughts of politely deferring to Martin's presumed modesty fleeing his head. He loves Martin's freckles, but he'd had no idea there were so many of them. They're everywhere. It's darling.

"Martin," he says, his tone soft and wondering and carrying the faint suggestion that Martin has been holding out on him, "you've got freckles."

"What?" Martin answers reflexively before he's even parsed the comment, turning halfway to find John looking at him. He doesn't understand even once he has parsed it. John's made mention of his freckles before, but not in a while, and now seems an odd moment to remark upon it like it's a fresh discovery.

But maybe he's just seeking some new place to put his attention. It could be he was watching Martin in the mirror and saw them just so in the light, or something like that. And it occurs to Martin rather belatedly that he's never been in such a state of undress around John so casually before, and he didn't even think to wonder if John was comfortable with that.

So he turns halfway back and starts to pull his shirt on, not wanting to draw any further attention to himself or the situation. "Y-yeah?" he says, chuckling softly, deciding to play into it. "So I've been told."

"Wh— hang on," John objects, leaning toward Martin with one hand braced on the bedspread and the other outstretched, as if to either beckon him over or halt him via telepathy. He doesn't even think about what he must look like or how confusing any of this might be; all his focus is centered on the appalling misunderstanding that has apparently led Martin to believe that he ought to put all of those delightful freckles away. "Don't—don't do that. Just..."

And that's when reality catches up with him, and it occurs to him that Martin going for his shirt probably has far more to do with Martin's comfort zone than anything else. Before, he had presumed that his general lack of interest in the aesthetics of Martin's bare skin had coincided with Martin's own preference for remaining clothed: a little convenience that never needed to be addressed. But there’s no reason his sudden change of heart should prompt an answering one in Martin.

John lowers his hand, cheeks flushed and brows drawn in consternation. "I just... I want to see them," he explains, his voice lower and considerably more sheepish. "I-if that's okay."

Edited 2020-12-18 03:24 (UTC)

Martin stops short, blinking in surprise as John reaches out to him with a strangely plaintive request. He turns about fully to face him, his eyebrows quirking up with bewilderment and concern.

John's being serious about this, he realizes, which is confusing for a moment. Martin looks from John's sheepish, flushed face down to his shirt without understanding the connection until, finally, he blurts, "Wh—you mean on my back?"

He knows there are freckles back there, sort of, in that they're just... around. He certainly doesn't think about them, doesn't consider them worth any sort of note. But Christ, it's so rare John asks for anything, particularly with such intensity, the possibility of denial doesn't even come to mind.

"I—sure," he says, coming to join him on the bed, shirt in hand. He's not cold and he can't find it in himself to be shy right now. If John wants to have a look, then, well... he should. Martin wants to give him anything, whatever he could possibly want, no matter how small or unexpected it might seem to him. So he sits down gingerly, angled somewhat away so John can see, feeling a bit off-kilter but certainly not uncomfortable.

"Is it really that many?" he asks curiously, twisting back in a rather silly attempt to look.

At first, Martin looks so taken aback that John's certain he's going to refuse. Not that it was a particularly considered request — more of an awkward, blurted objection that took too long to acknowledge the possibility (if not the outright likelihood) that Martin would rather just put on the bloody shirt than humor John's sudden interest. John draws back his hand, anchoring it around his own elbow.

When Martin puts his startled question, all John can muster in response is an uncertain, "Y-yes?" Did he not know already? Well, that wouldn't be the strangest thing; it's not easy to get a good look at your own back. Maybe no one else had commented on it before (yet another mark against his previous entanglements, Christ).

But then Martin's surprise softens a little — not fading entirely, but not calcifying into embarrassment, either — and he comes over to the bed and sits, his back angled towards John for inspection. John blinks, a faint, cautiously optimistic smile tugging at his lips as he glances between Martin's curious face and the freckles in question.

"Well, it's not—" he pauses, wondering if there's any subjective means of measuring relative freckle amounts and then deciding he doesn't care, "excessive." Whatever that means. "But there are quite a few." His eyes drift over the spray of them scattered across Martin's shoulder blades, and he releases his own arm so he can reach over and brush the back of his index finger over a little group of them. "They're lovely," he adds with quiet, thoughtless certainty.

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