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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.
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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"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—"
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"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.
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"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.
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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).
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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.
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"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."
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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."
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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."
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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.
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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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He isn't cold. It's perfectly pleasant in their room, and he runs hot anyway, and as long as they keep in close contact like this he should be all right. He is, certainly, a bit shy, and he doesn't like being exposed. But this doesn't feel like exposure. It's... something rather different.
John's never really just... looked at him before. Not like this. No one has. No one else in his spotty dating history would, for a few reasons. It isn't just that John loves him like no one else ever has, it's... it's something far more fundamental than that. Something Martin isn't quite sure he can get his head round right now.
"I... I didn't know you were quite so keen on them," he murmurs, a bit inanely, but needing to say something, to encourage more, somehow, without asking outright.
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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.
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"Well, I..." He fidgets, not uncomfortably, but not certain how to proceed, if he should turn fully around and let John have at it, or... what John even wants. "I certainly didn't mean to deprive you," he says with a sheepish smile.
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"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.
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It's a good question, a fair question, and it's not John asking that surprised him; it's the more internally directed question of what this is. John touches him all the time, and it would still be perfectly reasonable of him to ask if it was all right, but this... this is different. John knows it's different, that this is... unusual, for him. There isn't much call for him to be undressed in any sort of intimate context, and that isn't only because of John's preferences, but Martin's own. Is this okay doesn't mean right now; it means this, John touching him like this, like... like whatever this is.
He still doesn't have an answer to that. He only knows it's different, and that it is more than okay.
"Yes," he says softly, and he lays his shirt aside and shifts to situate himself a little more comfortably. He hesitates, and then, even softer: "Please."
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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.
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He chuckles lightly at both the little kiss and John's offer, but there's no part of him that considers it a joke. Observing and describing things are sort of John's specialty, and having that focus turned on him, being so profoundly seen and... and appreciated, adored, is desperately tantalizing, and he will never take it for granted.
"I think I would," he says, faintly coy.
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"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.
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And then comes the tap of his finger, a sensation familiar and immediately clear in its intent, though he has never been on this side of it before. Martin blinks and breathes through a sudden, startling swell of emotion in his chest, feeling for a precarious moment as though he might burst into tears. John has always been gentle with him, and yet this is — it's so much, still that elusive different he can't quite pin down.
"Yes," he answers softly, unable to completely hide the subtle thickening of his voice.
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And he did say 'yes.' Asked and answered.
Still, John proceeds with an abundance of care. He leans down to press a gentle, reverent kiss against Martin's skin, but resists the impulse to linger, or the urge to just wrap his arms around him and pull him close. Instead, he straightens, waiting to make sure Martin seems all right before tapping his finger against the other two points of the sail. He hadn't been entirely serious when he'd spoken of neglect, but he does like the idea of kissing as many of Martin's freckles as their collective preferences allow, and going by constellation seems like a good way to keep track of the ones he's covered.
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He remembers acutely the first time he let someone see him in any state of undress. It was stupid, a bit desperate; the very first date with someone he'd met online. He'd wanted to sleep with Martin and he'd made that very apparent from go, and Martin had taken that as a lucky, unexpected break. It hadn't been bad, exactly, but it had been overwhelming; Devon, his name was, had been eager and pushy, had delighted in touching him and making him jump. Charmed by how easy he was, at least that first time; eager to find ways to turn him on while sparing little thought to whether or how Martin might want that himself. It had led Martin to discover he doesn't particularly enjoy being so exposed, but he was too shy and too embarrassed to do anything but struggle to push past that. Because it had seemed like a flaw in his own design; throughout his spotty dating history, being undressed in front of a boyfriend has always led to one of two outcomes: sex, or a poorly disguised awkwardness around the shape and size of him, something Martin recognized and attempted to mitigate by not revealing himself all that much.
But John has no such goals or hangups. He reached out to stop Martin from getting dressed because he wanted to examine him, to touch and kiss him where he's never before had access, simply because he... because he wants to, because he likes to, because he loves Martin and he enjoys the feel of him for its own sake. And even with all that, as innocuous and gentle as his intentions are, he is still treating this with the utmost caution, something no one else has ever done, because in the unforgiving shorthand of the majority of the dating world, getting undressed is consent enough.
Martin shudders again and closes his eyes, though he cannot stop the tears from slipping out, and he reaches up to cover his face, although there is certainly no hiding this now.
"I-I'm sorry, it's—it's okay. I'm okay," he babbles, hiccuping softly. Christ, he doesn't want to bring things to a halt like this, but at the same time, he knows it might not be fair to ask John to just ignore such a profound reaction and carry on. And... and he trusts John to see him like this and not to recoil. He trusts he hasn't ruined anything, even if he has to sort of remind himself of that, to exercise the trust like an unused muscle; he knows it will be all right. "I, I want—I don't want you to stop, I just n-need a minute."
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He'd broken down like this. It was their very first day together, the first time Martin had touched him with no other intent but to make him feel good — not just good, but safe. To give him something that wouldn't twist into something else he hadn't asked for. The parallels hadn't really occurred to him until just now, but he's starting to make out the shape of them: that if he were someone else, someone less cautious and more presumptuous, then this, too, might be the sort of thing Martin couldn't ask for without assuming more risk than he'd like. That whatever Martin wanted this to be, or mean, might just as easily be subsumed by whatever his partner had already decided.
It's awful, but it gives John a clearer road map than he might've had, otherwise. He knows that what he's doing isn't a problem, and he knows that needing time isn't the same as needing space. So he leans forward, more careful than uncertain, and drapes his arms around Martin's middle. His chest presses against Martin's back as he curls around him, as if to cover him like a blanket. "It's okay," he murmurs, brushing a kiss against Martin's temple. "I've got you."
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"Thank you," he whispers, and draws a shuddering breath, letting it out again in a little huff. "I-I'm all right now, I think." Still a little tender, but no longer overcome, anyway. He wonders briefly if he should say more, should try to explain himself, but he isn't sure it's necessary, isn't even sure where he'd begin. He doesn't want this to become a conversation about bad memories; they've already evaded that once today, and that's a path he wants to stay on. He has no desire to delve into how his past relationships may have hurt him when he has John now, holding him and taking care of him. That's what matters; that's where he wants his focus to remain.
"You can keep going," he says after a moment, a little tentative but not uncertain. "Wh-whatever you like." He shifts a little, not quite returning to his original position, but offering the suggestion of it. Soft, flushing brightly even with his head still turned down: "I'm yours."
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He doesn't press for an explanation; Martin tends to offer them, unprompted, once he's settled down. But it does surprise him a little when all Martin ends up giving him is thanks and reassurance. Maybe that's a good sign: perhaps it means John didn't do anything that ought to be avoided going forward. It might not do anything for his curiosity, of course... but if Martin doesn't want to lead them down some miserable tangent, John isn't going to bloody drag him. His curiosity isn't worth that.
"You're sure?" he still asks, leaning back a little so he can see him properly. Martin's cheeks are still streaked with tears, and John lifts a hand so he can blot them dry with the cuff of his jumper. "I would hate to leave the boat unfinished," he adds, risking a wry little smile.
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"I'm sure," he murmurs, and sniffs once. He opens his mouth to say more, but he isn't sure what, or how; he feels he ought to explain himself, but he can't imagine doing it without running the risk of breaking down all over again. Perhaps later, perhaps once he feels steadier, and steadiness lies past the comfort and affection he still craves. In the end he just lists toward John and kisses him, brief and gentle and slightly salty; then he pulls back and takes John's hands, moves them gingerly to his shoulder, his belly, before turning himself about and getting awkwardly back into position.
"Touch me," he whispers, blushing a little at the twinned intimacy and innocence of the request, the intense vulnerability of it. "Please."
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