loficharm: (thousand yard stare)
Martin Blackwood ([personal profile] loficharm) wrote2022-03-02 07:37 pm
Entry tags:

Inevitable, Really

January 19th, 2022


"John, honestly." Martin shivers, digging his hands deeper into the pockets of the rather nice coat that is apparently his. He's standing on a stony portion of beach, where the day's mild chill has become much colder, and John is crouching down in the sand, seeking fossils. This has gotten rather out of hand, he thinks. They'd been having a perfectly fine time at Darrow's museum, last stop on the general tour, until the conversation had gotten away from them and had turned to a revelation of John's childhood hobby. Now they're out here, his own delight at learning this detail having driven John on this mission that is rapidly growing ridiculous. He'd been charmed by the idea of John digging around for fossils, but now one or both of them is running the risk of catching cold, and it'll be his fault. "It's okay if you don't find anything. It's probably not the right... time of year?" He grimaces at how stupid that sounds. "Well, I suppose fossils don't really have seasons, do they."

Not exactly helping his case. He hunches his shoulders and looks out at the horizon, the grey water stretching out to an apparently unreachable distance. Sort of haunting, actually.

"You'll catch your death out here," he scolds, turning his attention back to John.
statement_ends: (profile - smooth)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-05 07:26 pm (UTC)(link)
The desperate little noise Martin makes is both gratifying and thrilling, familiar and unprecedented, a song he knows by heart played on an instrument he's never touched before. A faint smile settles tucks itself into the corners of John's mouth, though he resists the urge to chuckle. He remembers how self-conscious Martin used to be, and he has absolutely no desire to fan that particular flame. It may be presumptuous to think he might nip that nonsense in the bud, either, but a little encouragement probably wouldn't hurt. So he answers with a low, deliberate hum of his own, his free hand sliding around Martin's back, fingers splayed across his shoulder blade.

He lets the kiss break softly, leaning back a fraction so he can look at Martin again, his eyes hooded but his gaze adoring. Christ, he's so beautiful, and his hands are framing John's face so gently. It occurs to him, distantly, that he needs to take extra care — that there are things Martin hasn't learned, yet, that John cannot expect him to instinctively understand. But there are means of communication besides awkward conversations over tea, ways to let Martin know that he's on the right track before he accidentally finds himself on the wrong one. John lifts his hand from beneath Martin's chin and settles it over the back of Martin's palm, cradling Martin's hand against his own cheek, and he turns his head just enough to brush his lips against the unbearably soft skin of Martin's wrist.

Even that brief detour leaves him eager to return to Martin's mouth, and he eases back down for another slow kiss. His hand gently guides Martin's back into his hair in implicit invitation: yes, here, please.
statement_ends: (oh gosh)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-05 09:24 pm (UTC)(link)
There is absolutely nothing voluntary about the noise John makes when Martin slides both hands into his hair, as if he'd been desperate to do so and was only awaiting permission. It feels divine, not least of all because it's been days since Martin's done it — a small span of time in the grand scheme of things, but one that feels like an age when measured against the frequency with which John used to receive such attentions — and it draws a soft, low moan out of him. Christ, he's missed this.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to gasp out a, "God, yes," leaning, cat-like, into Martin's touch. The arm around Martin tightens, wanting both to pull him closer and to alleviate some of the pressure of the counter against Martin's back, and he brings his other arm around to assist in the effort as he kisses Martin again, lips parting, drawing him deeper.
statement_ends: (soft - focused)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-05 11:27 pm (UTC)(link)
It's Martin who draws back next, giving both of them a moment to catch their breath. John gazes down at Martin's reddened face, realizing with some embarrassment that he's the one nearest to getting carried away, and he pulls in a deeper breath, willing his heart to pound a little less wildly. They have time, and Christ, Martin deserves some extra care, considering the circumstances. Better for them to slow down a bit, both because it lessens the odds of things going a bit too far, and because he doesn't want to stop. He wants to patiently introduce Martin to everything he's missed, wants to show him everything he doesn't yet know that they've discovered, wants to give Martin enough time to appreciate each one before he hurries him along to the next.

He hums quietly when Martin's fingers curl in his hair, then leans back down — not for a kiss, this time, but to let his forehead gently rest against Martin's while he continues to breathe. "You're all right?" he murmurs, leaning back and tipping his chin up a fraction, his nose brushing against Martin's in a fond little nuzzle. "This is okay?"
statement_ends: (smile - daww)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-06 03:38 am (UTC)(link)
John's gaze warms as Martin lets out that astonished little laugh, and he gives Martin's back a slow, idle rub as he listens. The answer doesn't surprise him, but he's still glad that he asked. It feels like another introduction, a demonstration of how they do things: that they check in even when it might not seem glaringly necessary, not so much out of a surplus of caution as for the simple pleasure of knowing that they're both having a good time.

His eyes start to slip shut as Martin lifts his chin up to meet him, but when their lips do brush, it's in the form of a question. John grins outright, just for a moment, before closing the barely perceptible distance between them. The kiss is brief but sweet, like something he'd ambush Martin with in passing, when they both have other things to do but he simply can't resist the temptation. He draws back just enough to murmur, "I am," then leans back in to brush another kiss against the corner of Martin's mouth. "Tea's getting cold," he adds a bit slyly, making absolutely no move to retrieve said tea.
statement_ends: (soft)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-06 04:12 pm (UTC)(link)
There are a few ways John might further the joke — feigning incredulity or skepticism, a playfully dubious 'if you're sure' — but Martin is kissing him again, and no clever rejoinder would be worth the interruption. He sighs softly, luxuriating in the sensations: the gentle drag of Martin's lips against his own, the way Martin tenderly frames his face in his hands before pushing his fingers back into his hair in what he knows is deliberate bid for a reaction. John hums his pleasure, drawing back just enough to whisper, "Menace," before he gently captures Martin's lower lip between his own in playful retaliation.

The curl of Martin's fingers through his hair doesn't just feel bloody fantastic, it also serves as a reminder of what other uses he might find for his own hands. He lets his right continue its slow circuit of Martin's back; his left, he draws back in so he can reach up between them. He rests his palm against Martin's shoulder for a beat or two, and then he moves, his fingers ghosting up Martin's neck and his thumb tracing the line of Martin's jaw.
statement_ends: (listening - cutiepie)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-06 08:48 pm (UTC)(link)
Martin gasps and arches into him, and it feels like both a reward and a faint warning. The situation is already a delicate one, with John's relative experience putting him at an unavoidable advantage. And Christ knows that's a foreign experience — even with Martin, who was so careful to demand nothing of him, he'd felt like he had some significant catching up to do — but that doesn't excuse him making a botch of it. If anything, it means he needs to put extra effort into not casually bulldozing over the boundaries of someone who might be having too good a time to really think about or articulate them — or, more likely, encouraging Martin to stumble blindly into one of his hard 'no's. The last thing he wants is for either of them to end up regretting any part of this. And that means, until they sit down and have a proper conversation about it all, he cannot let it escalate.

The irony is that escalation would be easy, almost instinctive, a more organic option than the slow, careful winding down that used to be the only manageable exit they had. If this were his Martin trembling beneath him, there'd be no question of it: the hand currently sinking into Martin's hair would curl into a fist; he'd relinquish his mouth in favor of sucking a bruise onto the soft span of his throat. He wants to, in the same way that he wants to stretch when first getting out of bed in the morning, or split a dessert at a restaurant, the sort of pleasure he wouldn't normally have to interrogate. He also knows it would be monstrously unfair to expect Martin to navigate anything more intense than what they're currently doing. Hell, even expecting Martin to navigate this is a bit much; it's only caution and luck that have kept them both on an even keel.

John sighs softly, both in response to Martin's touch and in some regret, before he consciously eases back a bit. "Hey," he breathes, punctuating it with both a light brush of a kiss and a gentle curl of his fingers in Martin's hair, wanting to indicate above all else that nothing's wrong, nothing's ruined, "I need a-a bit of a breather, okay?" He leans back a little so he can look at Martin properly, his thumb sweeping back the hair at Martin's temple, then lets his other hand drop to where Martin's back is still pressed against the counter. "And this cannot be comfortable," he adds dryly, before tipping his head towards the living room. "Here, do you— can we sit down?"
Edited 2022-03-06 20:49 (UTC)
statement_ends: (worried)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-07 06:46 pm (UTC)(link)
Martin seems a bit dazed — fair enough, really; John still feels a little unmoored, himself — but he follows John's lead without objection. He doesn't seem upset as they move to the couch, at least. It doesn't help that John is rather preoccupied with how to handle this with a minimum amount of awkwardness, to say nothing of the nascent worry that with this line crossed, any other he might attempt to draw will just seem painfully arbitrary. Maybe it was stupid of him to think this could be avoided, but simple, straightforward avoidance is all he'd thought to anticipate.

The possibility that it might've been better if he had showed some bloody self-restraint gnaws at him; the idea that Martin is the one who overstepped takes him by surprise, and he meets the stammered apology with a startled blink. "Wh—no, Martin," John hastens to reply, shifting on the cushions to face him and instinctively reaching for his hand. "If anything, I'm the one who—"

He cuts himself off with an exasperated huff. It feels inescapably patronizing to frame what just happened as either one of them taking advantage. Not when Martin had asked, and John had already been on the verge of offering. That doesn't mean it was the most intelligent collective impulse they've ever had, but Christ, Martin certainly doesn't owe him an apology.

"You didn't overstep," he tries again, giving Martin's hand a gentle squeeze. "Okay? You didn't do anything wrong; you were—you were perfect. I just didn't want us to... to get carried away."
statement_ends: (uh oh)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-07 10:49 pm (UTC)(link)
"O-oh," John says, his uneven tone conveying both surprise and the dismayed realization that there is nothing here that should shock him. If he'd given this possibility, this likelihood, the amount of forethought it deserved, then this is the snag he would've predicted. Of course it would be unfair to expect this Martin to just intrinsically understand the things that took him years to learn the first time around. That's why he stopped them in the kitchen. But he hadn't accounted for the strength of Martin's wanting, let alone the strength of his own desire. He hadn't thought about how desperate they would both be to not do everything wrong. And he hadn't even begun to think about how they might do this right.

If that option even exists.

He stares down at their joined hands, and thinks about how both of them keep referencing his Martin like a completely different person who's lurking in the next room, like he might walk in on them at any moment. It's not entirely wrong, he supposes, but he doesn't think it's entirely right, either. At any rate, he wouldn't call what just happened a case of mistaken identity. And maybe that's the problem — Christ, when Martin does come back to himself, maybe he'll resent this; maybe it will feel, in retrospect, like some extremely bizarre form of infidelity. But that Martin isn't the one currently sitting across from him and looking completely fucking heartbroken and lamenting that he doesn't deserve this, so... so that Martin will just have to wait.

"I... look," John pauses, rubbing his forehead as he tries to get his thoughts into some semblance of order. "You don't— I don't expect you to just... intuit years of experience you don't have. That's not possible, let alone fair. A-and... I don't know, maybe there isn't a fair way to do this. Maybe you'll be furious with me in a few days." He lets out a brief, humorless huff of laughter at the prospect, dragging his hand down his face before letting it drop into his lap. "But however we decide to handle this, I just..." he lifts his gaze to Martin's face, a focused line between his brows. "I didn't forget who you are, Martin. I think I—" his breath catches, and he has to swallow past the lump in his throat before he can conclude: "I remembered. Christ, you never stopped being you, Martin, that's why I..." he gestures, helplessly, back towards where they abandoned their tea.
statement_ends: (profile - soff)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-08 07:53 pm (UTC)(link)
The kiss is far more of a relief than a surprise. It's barely a surprise at all, in fact. It's what Martin would do — just like forgiving him an inhuman transgression, or stubbornly drawing him out of a gloomy spiral, or holding him close while he recovered his equilibrium, or gently coaxing him into the kitchen to make a bolstering cup of tea that would fix everything. This is always who Martin was; he didn't need to grow into his potential as much as John needed to become the sort of person willing to see what was on offer and embrace it.

But he has, and he does, leaning into the cradle of Martin's hands and returning the kiss with a soft hum. He lifts a palm to Martin's cheek, lingering at his lips for a few dragging seconds before drawing back again, seeking his gaze.

"You don't owe me anything," he murmurs, gentle but firm. "And I don't want to do anything that either of us might regret. But if... if you want this," he says, brushing his thumb along Martin's cheekbone, "then Christ, I want you to have it." He swallows a bit thickly, letting their foreheads rest together and his eyes fall shut. "I just need you to be okay."
statement_ends: (besotted)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-09 01:19 am (UTC)(link)
John slides his fingers back into Martin's hair, curling them in a practiced, grounding motion as he lets Martin's reassurances sink in. There is a part of him that still feels foolish for not anticipating this, and still worries about what else he might not be properly considering. But there is comfort in the simple exchange of words, in hearing Martin say with certainty that he wants this, that he's okay, that he's happy. That he has never been so happy, in fact — words that strike John like an echo of what he had blurted out in the wee hours of the morning, never expecting to have it returned anytime soon. The startling symmetry and the sensation of Martin nuzzling against him both conspire to draw a giddy little laugh out of him, and John pulls Martin in.

Their other embraces have largely been either delicate or desperate, but this one is warm and unapologetically firm, one hand cradling the back of Martin's head so he can continue his idle ministrations, the other curling close around his back. John presses a kiss to Martin's cheek, then nests another in his hair. "You never had to be better for me," he softly insists. "I just... didn't let myself see you." That feels, perhaps, a little too gracious towards his former self; it would be more accurate to say he simply hadn't cared to look rather than imply that there was subconscious self-restraint involved. But that John isn't here, thank Christ, and he has better things to do than either condemn or make excuses for him. "I do now," he says instead, nuzzling against Martin and breathing him in.
statement_ends: (besotted)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-03-10 04:50 pm (UTC)(link)
The thanks could break his heart, if he let it. Martin has told him on many occasions that no one has cared for him like John has, and he has exchanged the simmering indignation those words used to inspire for a more stubborn determination to make up for all that lost time, to show Martin the care he has always deserved. Maybe, under these circumstances, Martin has fewer disappointments to recollect; maybe that's a mercy. But even if that's true, it wouldn't lessen the novelty of John's sincere adoration. It wouldn't make being loved the sort of thing you can simply accept without feeling compelled to offer thanks for it.

He doesn't think either of them have the energy to confront that head-on, so he just gives Martin an extra squeeze. It ends up being the right call; he can feel Martin relaxing against him, growing heavier in his arms, and the warm familiarity of it all soothes him in turn. When Martin mumbles out a few words, it rouses him enough that John opens his eyes, and then he blinks, realizing he has no idea when he let them fall shut. Christ, they're both on their way to dozing off — no great surprise, considering the bloody roller coaster of a day they've had, and John finds himself profoundly disinclined to fight it, even for the purposes of a more comfortable relocation to the bedroom.

"Here," he murmurs, rubbing Martin's back gently, "let's have a proper lie-down, hm?" He shifts on the cushions, negotiating them both into a more horizontal configuration, patiently waiting for Martin to rediscover what works best as they collectively ease any points of uncomfortable pressure. Once they've settled, he turns to press a kiss to Martin's brow, puffing a soft sigh into his hair. Much better.