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 2020-12-06 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.
statement_ends: (mister blackwood)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-13 05:05 am (UTC)(link)
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.
statement_ends: (haughty)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-13 09:06 pm (UTC)(link)
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.
statement_ends: (smile - fond)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-14 03:47 am (UTC)(link)
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).
statement_ends: (smile - friendly)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-15 05:13 am (UTC)(link)
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."
statement_ends: (huh)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-18 02:50 am (UTC)(link)
"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)
statement_ends: (sweetie)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-19 04:51 am (UTC)(link)
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.
statement_ends: (look back)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-19 05:27 am (UTC)(link)
John's eyebrows tick up in surprise at Martin's admission. "Really?" He's sure he's mentioned them before. More than mentioned, even, and John shifts a bit closer, resettling himself within easier reach. "But I kiss them all the time. Not these, obviously, but the ones I can usually see — like these two, here." He illustrates the point by lightly tapping his finger against a pair of them, each in turn, that are higher up on Martin's shoulder, nearer to his neck. Surely Martin could see them in the mirror without any special effort. John always presumed he knew they were there.

Perhaps that was foolish of him; it's not as if he noticed when Martin was aiming for his scars. But on the other hand, maybe being inclined towards such deliberate aim would make it easier to recognize upon receipt.
statement_ends: (lil smirk)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-19 07:16 pm (UTC)(link)
John's smile warms as Martin's ears redden, and it's only the novelty of their current configuration that keeps him from dipping his head for a few illustrative little kisses to the freckles he's already so favored. His caution might be a bit overblown — Martin doesn't seem uncomfortable, and he isn't sure what, if anything, might qualify as 'too much' under the circumstances — but it doesn't seem right to carry on as if nothing is different.

"In fairness, I never thought you were holding out on me," he replies, leaning back a little to better admire Martin's back. "But these are a lot of freckles to have neglected for so long." He tsks softly, as if it's a terrible shame, then lets his fingers trace down Martin's spine, slow and careful.

"Is this okay?" he asks, stilling his hand but not yet lifting it away. He hopes so; he's always enjoyed how soft Martin is, and his back is no exception. Granted, if it was a big issue, he imagines Martin would've said something by now. But he also knows Martin likes to indulge him, and he doesn't want to take advantage. Especially with this all being a bit new.
statement_ends: (soft)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-20 04:41 am (UTC)(link)
It occurs to him, after he's asked it, that the question is a bit vague. If Martin had asked for clarification, John isn't even entirely sure what he'd say. He's thinking mostly of Martin's continued state of undress; the myriad ways in which Martin has intentionally made himself vulnerable have never included this one, and he has gone to great lengths to ask for things that John would categorize as more fraught, subjectively speaking. Not that subjective measures are of any great use to either of them. The point is, if this was something Martin had ever actively wanted, John figures it would have come up before now.

And 'this' isn't terribly well defined, either. John's own wants are quite simple, but the implications unfurl in directions he can't always follow: an issue that has proved problematic often enough that even now, after all the work they've done and the care they've taken, he still second-guesses the wisdom of indulging his own impulses. He wants to touch Martin because Martin is soft and warm and exceedingly pleasant to touch; he wants to examine this newly uncovered territory because he's never seen it before; he wants to trace the constellations of Martin's freckles because he thinks they're beautiful. He also feels as if he's just been handed a musical instrument he's never seen before, and he doesn't want his well-intentioned exploration to strike any sour notes.

But then Martin sets his shirt aside and settles himself more comfortably, and it's that more than the verbal confirmation that releases the tension knotted in John's stomach. He hums in quiet pleasure, running his fingers back up to the nape of Martin's neck with a bit more confidence.

"They really are charming," he murmurs, playing connect-the-dots on Martin's left shoulder blade and tracing out a slightly wonky S, "though I suppose there's no easy way for you to appreciate them in the mirror." He leans forward, nuzzling fondly into the portion of Martin's hair that's still mussed from being clutched in his fist, and then planting a gentle kiss there. "Would you like me to describe them to you?" he asks, only half-facetious.
statement_ends: (sweetie)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2020-12-23 04:00 am (UTC)(link)
John's smile widens into a grin at Martin's agreement, and he leans back with a thoughtful hum. "Well..." he starts, studying Martin's back as he considers where to begin, letting his fingers trail idly over the gentle curves of him. Perhaps he'll start with the broad strokes, and then fill in the details. That seems as good an approach as any.

"They're all over, to start with," he says, and his tone could almost pass for academic if it weren't for the warmth that infuses it. "No particular areas of concentration. However, just here..." his arm stills, and his fingers trace the outline of a particularly evocative smattering of freckles tucked between Martin's spine and his right shoulder, "there's a little group of them that looks rather like a sailboat. It's almost uncanny."

His forefinger outlines the triangle that comprises the sail, and then he gently taps the topmost freckle. Usually, this is a courtesy that Martin shows him, a concession to the more nebulous nature of John's boundaries and preferences. But this feels like uncharted territory for both of them, and he wants to be careful. "May I?" he inquires softly.

(no subject)

[personal profile] statement_ends - 2020-12-23 16:40 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] statement_ends - 2020-12-24 21:02 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] statement_ends - 2021-01-02 21:31 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] statement_ends - 2021-01-03 23:48 (UTC) - Expand