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Entry tags:
Crash Course
January 22nd, 2022
"How does that feel?"
Martin had not intended to snoop. He'd expressly intended not to, in fact, in a way that had taken some conscious effort. With John needing to go to work for a few hours — needing to record Statements, as he'd sheepishly implied — Martin knew the temptation would be stronger than ever. His curiosity about his life here, their life together, is almost overwhelming at times. But just because this is all technically his doesn't mean he has any right to it, really.
He'd assured John he'd be fine, that he'd find some way to occupy himself. He'd thought perhaps he might read, or poke around on this universe's odd simulacrum of YouTube. He should've anticipated it would be harder than that, and he has a hard time believing that John wasn't fully aware of the possibility. So in a way, being left alone in the flat might almost be tacit approval of his own urge to search it.
He'd decided to clean, instead. Something active, helpful, allowing him exploration in a limited capacity. It had worked, too. Until the bedroom. Until the box under the bed, specifically. Filled with tapes, just like the ones they'd used at the Institute, with labels in John's handwriting, proclaiming them to be... innocuous things. Personal things. He'd picked up one off the top of the pile. Christmas, it said. Simple. Straightforward. He'd noticed the cassette player, sitting there on the bedside table, had glanced at it suspiciously, almost sure it hadn't been there before. He should've just put it back. He should not have slotted the tape into the player, and he should not be listening to it now.
But that is what he's doing, perched on the edge of the bed, the player clutched tight in his hands as he stares down at it, tape spooling away as his own voice grits out a response to John's question amid some layers of rustling fabric and creaking wood. "Jesus Christ, John," he says.
There's a moment where there's nothing but his own audibly labored breathing, and the slight shifting of what can only be this very mattress; and then John says, in a voice quite unlike anything Martin's heard from him before: "Well, now you've gone a bit quiet. I suppose we'll have to do something about that."
This is not some sort of idle little recording made during a Christmas party, or anything remotely related to Christmas at all besides the date. This is private. It is incredibly, unutterably private, and he should not be listening to it. He should shut this tape off and put it back and pretend he never found it; better still, he should own up to having found it, apologize, and go from there. But even as his face reddens and his heart rate skyrockets, as he listens to his own gasps and moans and evident struggling, he cannot bring himself to interrupt it. He sits, swamped in mortified fascination, and he lets it play on.
"Going somewhere?" John asks, and Martin very nearly gasps just hearing his voice pitched that low, laced with a sort of playful authority. As agonizing as it is listening to himself, especially in such intense vulnerability, it is intoxicating hearing John like this. He finds himself desperately trying to piece together the details. It's clear he's been... restrained somehow. Was he tied up? Is he the sort of person who asks for that? And is John the sort of person who does it?
He's only barely begun to work this out when his recorded self lets out such a sharp, sudden yelp that he jolts and nearly drops the player. Christ, what was that, what the hell did John do? He listens for any clue, but there's nothing, no words exchanged between them, just an oddly protracted moment of silence and shaky breathing and then another cry, so intense and raw that it's almost distressing. Martin has... he's always been noisy, but he knows he's never made a noise like that before.
"Mister Blackwood," John says, silky and amused, sending a shiver down Martin's spine, "you've been holding out on me. Or did you not know?" He's still doing it, whatever it is, drawing a constant stream of frantic whines and murmurs out of the other him. "Is this a shock to you as well?"
Is what a shock? What is he doing? What the hell is he doing?!
Martin can't fucking figure it out. He keeps listening, growing both increasingly uncomfortable and uncomfortably aroused as John keeps... investigating whatever this is, and there's never any clarity given. What exchanges do occur are unspecific, providing only more confusing evidence: that whatever this is, it does seem like a surprise, and that it's so good he's beside himself, swearing and begging for more. Even without knowing the details, Martin knows he's never had sex like this before, but he doesn't think a lack of experience is at fault for his bewilderment. He cannot picture it. If John were just... touching him, it wouldn't be so bloody novel. He's talking often enough that he's not using his mouth. What is it?
And then John asks if this is all it takes, and Martin nearly drops the tape player again, or rather nearly throws it across the room. The following confirmation that yes, he was tied up, barely registers. The idea that this, whatever it is, could be enough to finish the job but they hadn't ever thought to try it, is completely baffling. And yet it seems like an idea they were both keen to pursue. It keeps going like that for what feels like forever, and he keeps listening, rapt and distantly horrified with himself. The only clue that ever comes as to what any of it was is just his own one-word request: Harder, which could refer to literally anything. The sweeter moments — when he stops to ask if John is okay, resulting in gentle reassurance somewhat like what he's experienced himself — are overshadowed by more questions: why wouldn't John be okay? Is this strenuous? Is it...
Holy shit, is it actually working?
He sits there, sweating, turned on, and appalled as he listens to himself achieve an orgasm the like of which he knows he's never felt. It sounds... it sounds like it was incredible. He couldn't shut up the entire time. Christ, the whole building must know what they get up to.
He asks to be untied, and John sheepishly tells him Happy Christmas, and Martin finally forces himself to stop the tape. He's not going to find out what happened here and he shouldn't know to wonder. This wasn't his. He has no business wondering, committing such a towering invasion of privacy.
...Why didn't it sound like John was getting anything out of this, apart from his own amusement? He almost considers resuming playback, but instead he rather aggressively ejects the tape, returns it to the box and returns the box beneath the bed. The tape player he sets back on the bedside table, nervously, like it might somehow give him up. Then he slumps over, his head in his hands.
"Fuck," he mutters, and shifts uneasily. He's hard, and he needs to not be. He could just deal with it in the loo, he probably even has time for a shower — John will surely be back soon, but a shower is innocent enough — but even that feels like a gross impropriety. He has no right to any of this, erection fucking included.
It takes some time just sitting there, but he wills himself to calm down. Mostly, at least. Enough that he can get up, shaky but no longer... encumbered. He needs to find something to do, something productive, something to pull him away from all this. Something helpful, like he set out to do.
Laundry. He can do laundry. The hamper's nearly full, especially with John having made up the bed for him with new sheets that first night. Which felt ridiculous at the time, but may have been necessary, in retrospect. He feels bad about it either way. Laundry is tedious, slow, and requires some physical effort. It will help.
He pokes around until he finds detergent and some of Darrow's unfamiliar coins, not sure what he'll need, but multiple trips wouldn't be the end of the world. Fortunately the laundry room is easy enough to find. He lugs everything down to a rather dismal little room in the basement, cracked concrete floor and peeling walls, lights that flicker occasionally. The machines don't appear to require money, which is nice, at least. He loads up the washer, takes his time figuring out the right setting, and turns it on. Then he stands there for a moment, staring at it, listening to the mechanical churn. It's comforting, in a way. He is still overheated, his heart still pounding too fast, his face probably still flushed. But he's calming down by degrees. Maybe he can just... ask about this. Maybe he can find a way to ask that won't make him want to walk directly into the sea.
He's about to head back upstairs when the lights flicker again, more dramatically this time, and he stills, looking up at them with slight trepidation. He's not sure why. Work has made him paranoid, he supposes. Jane Prentiss made him justifiably paranoid. There was something off about the lights just now, and...
And is he imagining it, or is there some sort of low tone, somewhere beneath the washing machine? Like a drone or a hum, or... whispers?
The lights flicker again and his gaze darts back to the washing machine, drawn by some nebulous sense that there is something out of place, settling abruptly on the tape player that, this time, he knows to 100% certainty was not there before. It's on, recording, and he stares at it, a cold dread pooling in his gut, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He feels, suddenly, intensely sure that he doesn't want to turn around. That he won't like what he sees if he does. He should just get out of here, get back upstairs to the relative safety of the flat.
But instead, perhaps inevitably, he does turn around. There's something on the wall that he's pretty sure also wasn't there before, a sort of spidering crack in it, with something moving underneath. He can barely see it; it's barely perceptible, but it's there. Movement in those awful black lines, like ink flowing behind the plaster. Like moving shadows.
He's not sure why, but he takes a hesitating step forward. Cursed by curiosity, in more ways than one today. He just wants to get a better look, to try and see what's making that weird sense of movement. Maybe it's... somehow, something normal and reasonable, and if he can just get a look—
There is someone else there.
He doesn't know how he didn't see them before, standing in the corner, shadowed but very present in his periphery. He jolts, just barely biting back a shriek as he looks at them more directly, except there's no one there after all. He stands there, breathing heavily and feeling like an idiot. Christ, he was sure... well, at least the whole situation has him spooked enough now that he has no intention of staying. Fuck this, he thinks, and he pivots on his heel with every intention of hurrying out and back up the stairs.
Instead something lashes around his waist, catching him so sharply that he nearly chokes and topples over; there's nothing there, nothing he can see, but he can feel it, some sort of faint pressure twining around him, his legs, his arms, up to his chest. He tries to pull against it and it lifts him up off the floor with terrifying ease, holding him suspended for just a moment before it drags him back, slamming him to the wall. He gasps, winded, and looks down to see himself swathed in shadows, tendrils of intangible dark that are somehow, impossibly, holding him up, pinning him to the wall. The lights flicker violently, casting everything in a frenetic sort of stop motion. The noise is overwhelming now, like someone is whispering directly into his ear, not that he can make out a word of it. He struggles, his shoes scraping uselessly at the wall as he's pressed back against it like it wants to pull him inside somehow. And that isn't the only pressure exerted on him, neither the unyielding wall at his back nor the shadows weaving their way around him; there is also the overwhelming sense of some intense emotion, not quite malevolent but terrifying all the same. It feels... not even angry. Petty, which is almost worse.
"No—!" is the only cry he can muster once he's regained his breath, and only barely, as the response is immediate, another plume of darkness wrapping thickly around his mouth, muffling his voice so effectively he might as well be under water. He struggles harder, desperate and panicky and utterly ineffectual, and it just holds him there, motionless, like it's lying in wait.
"How does that feel?"
Martin had not intended to snoop. He'd expressly intended not to, in fact, in a way that had taken some conscious effort. With John needing to go to work for a few hours — needing to record Statements, as he'd sheepishly implied — Martin knew the temptation would be stronger than ever. His curiosity about his life here, their life together, is almost overwhelming at times. But just because this is all technically his doesn't mean he has any right to it, really.
He'd assured John he'd be fine, that he'd find some way to occupy himself. He'd thought perhaps he might read, or poke around on this universe's odd simulacrum of YouTube. He should've anticipated it would be harder than that, and he has a hard time believing that John wasn't fully aware of the possibility. So in a way, being left alone in the flat might almost be tacit approval of his own urge to search it.
He'd decided to clean, instead. Something active, helpful, allowing him exploration in a limited capacity. It had worked, too. Until the bedroom. Until the box under the bed, specifically. Filled with tapes, just like the ones they'd used at the Institute, with labels in John's handwriting, proclaiming them to be... innocuous things. Personal things. He'd picked up one off the top of the pile. Christmas, it said. Simple. Straightforward. He'd noticed the cassette player, sitting there on the bedside table, had glanced at it suspiciously, almost sure it hadn't been there before. He should've just put it back. He should not have slotted the tape into the player, and he should not be listening to it now.
But that is what he's doing, perched on the edge of the bed, the player clutched tight in his hands as he stares down at it, tape spooling away as his own voice grits out a response to John's question amid some layers of rustling fabric and creaking wood. "Jesus Christ, John," he says.
There's a moment where there's nothing but his own audibly labored breathing, and the slight shifting of what can only be this very mattress; and then John says, in a voice quite unlike anything Martin's heard from him before: "Well, now you've gone a bit quiet. I suppose we'll have to do something about that."
This is not some sort of idle little recording made during a Christmas party, or anything remotely related to Christmas at all besides the date. This is private. It is incredibly, unutterably private, and he should not be listening to it. He should shut this tape off and put it back and pretend he never found it; better still, he should own up to having found it, apologize, and go from there. But even as his face reddens and his heart rate skyrockets, as he listens to his own gasps and moans and evident struggling, he cannot bring himself to interrupt it. He sits, swamped in mortified fascination, and he lets it play on.
"Going somewhere?" John asks, and Martin very nearly gasps just hearing his voice pitched that low, laced with a sort of playful authority. As agonizing as it is listening to himself, especially in such intense vulnerability, it is intoxicating hearing John like this. He finds himself desperately trying to piece together the details. It's clear he's been... restrained somehow. Was he tied up? Is he the sort of person who asks for that? And is John the sort of person who does it?
He's only barely begun to work this out when his recorded self lets out such a sharp, sudden yelp that he jolts and nearly drops the player. Christ, what was that, what the hell did John do? He listens for any clue, but there's nothing, no words exchanged between them, just an oddly protracted moment of silence and shaky breathing and then another cry, so intense and raw that it's almost distressing. Martin has... he's always been noisy, but he knows he's never made a noise like that before.
"Mister Blackwood," John says, silky and amused, sending a shiver down Martin's spine, "you've been holding out on me. Or did you not know?" He's still doing it, whatever it is, drawing a constant stream of frantic whines and murmurs out of the other him. "Is this a shock to you as well?"
Is what a shock? What is he doing? What the hell is he doing?!
Martin can't fucking figure it out. He keeps listening, growing both increasingly uncomfortable and uncomfortably aroused as John keeps... investigating whatever this is, and there's never any clarity given. What exchanges do occur are unspecific, providing only more confusing evidence: that whatever this is, it does seem like a surprise, and that it's so good he's beside himself, swearing and begging for more. Even without knowing the details, Martin knows he's never had sex like this before, but he doesn't think a lack of experience is at fault for his bewilderment. He cannot picture it. If John were just... touching him, it wouldn't be so bloody novel. He's talking often enough that he's not using his mouth. What is it?
And then John asks if this is all it takes, and Martin nearly drops the tape player again, or rather nearly throws it across the room. The following confirmation that yes, he was tied up, barely registers. The idea that this, whatever it is, could be enough to finish the job but they hadn't ever thought to try it, is completely baffling. And yet it seems like an idea they were both keen to pursue. It keeps going like that for what feels like forever, and he keeps listening, rapt and distantly horrified with himself. The only clue that ever comes as to what any of it was is just his own one-word request: Harder, which could refer to literally anything. The sweeter moments — when he stops to ask if John is okay, resulting in gentle reassurance somewhat like what he's experienced himself — are overshadowed by more questions: why wouldn't John be okay? Is this strenuous? Is it...
Holy shit, is it actually working?
He sits there, sweating, turned on, and appalled as he listens to himself achieve an orgasm the like of which he knows he's never felt. It sounds... it sounds like it was incredible. He couldn't shut up the entire time. Christ, the whole building must know what they get up to.
He asks to be untied, and John sheepishly tells him Happy Christmas, and Martin finally forces himself to stop the tape. He's not going to find out what happened here and he shouldn't know to wonder. This wasn't his. He has no business wondering, committing such a towering invasion of privacy.
...Why didn't it sound like John was getting anything out of this, apart from his own amusement? He almost considers resuming playback, but instead he rather aggressively ejects the tape, returns it to the box and returns the box beneath the bed. The tape player he sets back on the bedside table, nervously, like it might somehow give him up. Then he slumps over, his head in his hands.
"Fuck," he mutters, and shifts uneasily. He's hard, and he needs to not be. He could just deal with it in the loo, he probably even has time for a shower — John will surely be back soon, but a shower is innocent enough — but even that feels like a gross impropriety. He has no right to any of this, erection fucking included.
It takes some time just sitting there, but he wills himself to calm down. Mostly, at least. Enough that he can get up, shaky but no longer... encumbered. He needs to find something to do, something productive, something to pull him away from all this. Something helpful, like he set out to do.
Laundry. He can do laundry. The hamper's nearly full, especially with John having made up the bed for him with new sheets that first night. Which felt ridiculous at the time, but may have been necessary, in retrospect. He feels bad about it either way. Laundry is tedious, slow, and requires some physical effort. It will help.
He pokes around until he finds detergent and some of Darrow's unfamiliar coins, not sure what he'll need, but multiple trips wouldn't be the end of the world. Fortunately the laundry room is easy enough to find. He lugs everything down to a rather dismal little room in the basement, cracked concrete floor and peeling walls, lights that flicker occasionally. The machines don't appear to require money, which is nice, at least. He loads up the washer, takes his time figuring out the right setting, and turns it on. Then he stands there for a moment, staring at it, listening to the mechanical churn. It's comforting, in a way. He is still overheated, his heart still pounding too fast, his face probably still flushed. But he's calming down by degrees. Maybe he can just... ask about this. Maybe he can find a way to ask that won't make him want to walk directly into the sea.
He's about to head back upstairs when the lights flicker again, more dramatically this time, and he stills, looking up at them with slight trepidation. He's not sure why. Work has made him paranoid, he supposes. Jane Prentiss made him justifiably paranoid. There was something off about the lights just now, and...
And is he imagining it, or is there some sort of low tone, somewhere beneath the washing machine? Like a drone or a hum, or... whispers?
The lights flicker again and his gaze darts back to the washing machine, drawn by some nebulous sense that there is something out of place, settling abruptly on the tape player that, this time, he knows to 100% certainty was not there before. It's on, recording, and he stares at it, a cold dread pooling in his gut, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He feels, suddenly, intensely sure that he doesn't want to turn around. That he won't like what he sees if he does. He should just get out of here, get back upstairs to the relative safety of the flat.
But instead, perhaps inevitably, he does turn around. There's something on the wall that he's pretty sure also wasn't there before, a sort of spidering crack in it, with something moving underneath. He can barely see it; it's barely perceptible, but it's there. Movement in those awful black lines, like ink flowing behind the plaster. Like moving shadows.
He's not sure why, but he takes a hesitating step forward. Cursed by curiosity, in more ways than one today. He just wants to get a better look, to try and see what's making that weird sense of movement. Maybe it's... somehow, something normal and reasonable, and if he can just get a look—
There is someone else there.
He doesn't know how he didn't see them before, standing in the corner, shadowed but very present in his periphery. He jolts, just barely biting back a shriek as he looks at them more directly, except there's no one there after all. He stands there, breathing heavily and feeling like an idiot. Christ, he was sure... well, at least the whole situation has him spooked enough now that he has no intention of staying. Fuck this, he thinks, and he pivots on his heel with every intention of hurrying out and back up the stairs.
Instead something lashes around his waist, catching him so sharply that he nearly chokes and topples over; there's nothing there, nothing he can see, but he can feel it, some sort of faint pressure twining around him, his legs, his arms, up to his chest. He tries to pull against it and it lifts him up off the floor with terrifying ease, holding him suspended for just a moment before it drags him back, slamming him to the wall. He gasps, winded, and looks down to see himself swathed in shadows, tendrils of intangible dark that are somehow, impossibly, holding him up, pinning him to the wall. The lights flicker violently, casting everything in a frenetic sort of stop motion. The noise is overwhelming now, like someone is whispering directly into his ear, not that he can make out a word of it. He struggles, his shoes scraping uselessly at the wall as he's pressed back against it like it wants to pull him inside somehow. And that isn't the only pressure exerted on him, neither the unyielding wall at his back nor the shadows weaving their way around him; there is also the overwhelming sense of some intense emotion, not quite malevolent but terrifying all the same. It feels... not even angry. Petty, which is almost worse.
"No—!" is the only cry he can muster once he's regained his breath, and only barely, as the response is immediate, another plume of darkness wrapping thickly around his mouth, muffling his voice so effectively he might as well be under water. He struggles harder, desperate and panicky and utterly ineffectual, and it just holds him there, motionless, like it's lying in wait.
no subject
He doesn't seem to, though. His smile is as dreamy as it's ever been, his voice as pleasantly soft, as if he's speaking from beneath a cozy blanket. John returns the smile, letting his fingers curl through Martin's in a loose tangle. "Let me know if anything starts to feel off," he instructs, giving his fingers another illustrative flex as he adds, "especially here." Then he leans forward to press a kiss to Martin's hairline, lingering there for a few moments to bask in the warmth of him. "And I'll look after you," he murmurs against Martin's crown.
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He keeps his head bowed for a moment, then lets himself slump forward a little, easing his head onto John's shoulder. "Is this okay?" he mumbles, and stretches his fingers out again, another rhythmic flex. "Or you can move me wherever you like," he adds, terrifically unbothered by the idea of just being puppeted gently around.
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"I think we can do better," he replies, turning to press another kiss to Martin's hair before he carefully disentangles himself. He shifts across the mattress, dragging their pillows to the center of the headboard and propping them up before settling himself there, back against the headboard, one leg folded beneath him and the other stretched across the bedspread. "Okay," he murmurs, taking Martin by the shoulders and coaxing him backwards, steering him across the little distance between them and encouraging him to lean back against his chest. "There we go," he says, letting out a satisfied sigh, one arm winding loosely around Martin to rest a hand on his forearm, the other lifting to once again sink his fingers into Martin's hair. He curls them slowly as he nuzzles against Martin's temple. "How's this?"
no subject
Then John reaches out to him, nudging him along with gentle hands on his shoulders. Martin scoots a little awkwardly back until he's where John wants, then he lets John tip him gradually back until he's leaning his weight against him. John's arm curls around him, an even nicer addition to the overall feeling of being enfolded, and he breathes out happily as John returns to stroking his hair, nuzzling against him with his question.
"S'nice," he says, taking a moment to enjoy the warmth of John at his back and the doubled security of being held; then taking a moment more to consider any potential drawbacks. "You're sure I'm not too heavy?"
no subject
'Tiresome' for either one of them, really. John hadn't had reclining in mind when he tied Martin up, and while he doesn't think the shift in position will aggravate anything, he's prepared for the possibility that it might. But he, at least, is perfectly content to enjoy their current configuration for the moment. He brushes an idle kiss against Martin's cheek, then lets his head tip back, occipital bone thumping softly against the headboard, his fingers still carding through Martin's hair.
no subject
He turns his head after a moment, nuzzling softly against John's cheek, his eyes still shut. The shared quiet is nice, peaceful, but he misses the pleasing rumble of John's voice. "John," he murmurs. "Will you tell me..." He hesitates, thinking carefully about how to word it. He already asked what they're like together, but he wants more, more detail, and he doesn't want it to be too broad a question, either. Something John can actually answer. The question that comes up feels a little self-indulgent, but right now that doesn't scare him as much as it might normally.
"What do you like about me?" he asks softly. "I mean... anything, like, my personality, or my..." He trips over the word body, too sheepish to say it, a bit of embarrassment managing to slip through his overall contentment after all. "I'm just curious. I didn't know anyone could ever..." That sentence is a bit too self-pitying for him to finish, so he just trails off, his eyes cracking open just enough to peek up at him in shy curiosity.
no subject
When he finds them, they're... well, fuck, they're heartbreaking, and John has to struggle to limit his facial reaction to just a furrow of his brow and a small frown. The worst part is that Christ, he probably should have anticipated this. He knew that there would be gaps in Martin's understanding. But he had fixated on the ones that might prove to be the most uncomfortable or awkward if left unfilled, and he had overlooked this one completely: that Martin simply wouldn't know what there was to like about himself, why John would want to be with him. That even if he dodged the specific hangups some of his post-Prentiss partners instilled in him, he's still never been with anyone who bothered to build him up, or—or value him.
Well. John schools his expression into something more thoughtful and less upset — he is upset, but that is beside the point, and he'd rather compose a worthy response than have to reassure Martin that it wasn't a mistake for him to speak up in the first place. "Asking the big questions," he murmurs, dipping his head to nuzzle Martin's shoulder. He lets his hand slip from Martin's hair so he can wrap both arms around him and give him a slow, firm squeeze while he decides where the hell to even begin.
"Besides your freckles," he starts — because that, at least, has been established, "and how soft your hair is," he adds, punctuating it with a gentle nuzzle into said hair, "I like... I like how good you are. I like the way you always try to do the right thing, even when it's hard. I like how stubborn you are about that, even when it ends up being... inconvenient." He laces the word with fond humor, having no real desire to dig into the details of, say, the whole Riggs debacle. "I like watching you grow, seeing your confidence in yourself increase. I like how kind you are, particularly towards people who probably haven't earned it, myself very much included."
He pauses, thinking about what Martin didn't quite manage to say after 'my personality,' and gently changes tack. "And while I've never put much stock in aesthetics, there are a lot of things I love about you. The way your eyes crinkle at the edges when you smile, or laugh. Your cheekbones," he bestows an illustrative little kiss there, "your jaw. I like the way your hands are always warmer than mine. From a tactile perspective, you are exceedingly pleasant to the touch." He rubs his thumb along Martin's forearm, between the coils of rope, and hums his quiet pleasure.
"And..." John hesitates, cheeks prickling, before bullying himself onward, "perhaps this a selfish one, but... I like that you always insist on seeing the best in me." He looks down at Martin's hands, unable to meet his eyes, then clears his throat, thinking that perhaps he ought to wrap this up before he gets downright maudlin. "You're perfect," he concludes, barely above a whisper. "As I've said."
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But John is quick to soothe any nervousness that might spring up. Even as he takes his time considering the answer, he fills the silence with a murmured acknowledgment, a touch of recognition for what daunting question this is — for Martin, at least. He does not sound daunted. He wraps both arms around Martin and squeezes gently, surprising a softly delighted "Oh," out of him. Keeping him stable and grounded and safe.
And then he begins to answer, and Martin's breath catches and holds. There is no hiding from any of it; he is here, open and vulnerable, a literally captive audience, with no barrier and no possibility for diffusion or dismissal. No pretense, no possible space for doubt or misunderstanding. It all just pours out, measured and precise and fond and... and genuine. That he's good. That he's kind. That he has grown and become more confident. That he always tries to do right. John loves his cheekbones. John loves his jaw. The caress of a thumb, finding his arm between lines of rope, would be enough to make him shiver if he weren't already frozen. John finally seems to trip a little at the end of it, claiming that Martin 'insists' on seeing the best in him, as if that's some conscious choice Martin is making and not simply the visible truth. Martin almost wants to speak up, finding that easier to latch onto than any of the rest. Throwing it back, because he can't simply accept all this.
But then John whispers, You're perfect, and Martin's breath stutters again, his lips parting in shock. When he'd said this before, it had... it had felt nice, like a nice little comment to help ease his anxiety in that moment. A reassurance that he hadn't made a botch of anything. He'd wanted, for a flicker of an instant, to think it might have meant more, and it had been embarrassing, shameful, to want that. He'd recoiled from it.
But there is no recoiling now, especially not as John carefully emphasizes that he has said this before. That is what he'd meant, and it's what he means now. He thinks Martin is perfect.
How is he supposed to cope with that? With any of this? He no longer feels like he's floating in that pleasant dreamy state; this has all become so starkly real and clear that he twitches like an engine sputtering back to life.
"I—" he starts with absolutely no idea of where to go, and his breath shudders as tears start to well up in his eyes. Christ, there is nothing he can do to hide or forestall this, either. "John," he whispers, overwhelmed, and tries to turn inward, to burrow against him, to hug him as best he can without the use of his arms.
no subject
The next best thing is a swift reaction, and that, at least, John manages. He sits up, helping Martin rotate on the mattress so he can curl up against his chest, his right leg tangling between Martin's calves as John gathers him close, as near to being in his lap as their configuration allows. "I know," he says, his arms wrapped snug around him, his fingers gently tracing over whatever skin he can reach between the coils of rope. "I know."
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He lets himself rest like that for a while, enjoying the touch of John's hands, the pressure around him, until, finally, slight discomforts start to make themselves known, rousing him from peace as he lifts his head and looks at John a bit sleepily.
"Okay," he says, his voice soft and small. "I think... I think I'm done now."
Feels almost a shame to undo all that work, but he enjoyed it for a good amount of time, probably — he has no idea how much time has actually passed — and more importantly, there is a low, growing desperation in him to be able to move again, to put his arms around John and hug him back.
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So he holds him, resisting the urge to ask how he's feeling, trusting Martin to speak up the moment he starts to feel uncomfortable. And eventually, he does, lifting his head and announcing that he's finished in much the same way he had that first time. John smiles down at him, faint and fond, and presses a brief kiss to his forehead before murmuring, "Okay."
He doesn't quite enjoy relinquishing his hold on him or moving away, the necessary first steps in getting him unbound, but there is always some relief in undoing the knots and loosening the rope. Not least of all because, while the rope is pleasant enough to the touch, it still feels like an impediment when measured against the uninterrupted length of Martin's arm or the soft span of his back, and John's looking forward to a cleaner canvas. He works backwards, starting with the knot around Martin's wrists, making swifter progress now that his chief concern is just making sure the rope doesn't get too tangled as he loosens the coils and lifts them away. In a matter of minutes, Martin is free, and John deposits the rope in a loose pile so he can do his usual bit of light fussing.
"How do you feel?" he asks, taking Martin's hands and running his thumbs over the back of Martin's palms, as if he might pick up on any numbness by osmosis. "Everything okay?"
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"Everything's okay," he answers, and looks at John with a small, sheepish smile. "I feel good. That was... it was really nice. Thank you."
He lists forward slightly, still feeling that pull to hug John, but he can't quite bring himself to it yet. John seems intent on fussing over him, and the novelty of that is still enough that he doesn't want to miss a thing.
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He remembers only after he's done it that 'normal' is still a subjective metric, and does a slightly sheepish double-take as he lowers Martin's hands. "I'm, er... I'm glad you liked it," he says, a little stilted by the sudden rush of awkward uncertainty he feels, but sincere.
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"I did," he says softly, and finally he allows himself to answer his own urge toward affection, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around John to pull him close.
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Those suspicions are persistent, but they're also an inevitable dead end. He cannot imagine arguing against any of this when it makes both of them so happy, or denying himself when it would mean denying Martin, too. So he just puffs a quiet sigh against Martin's crown, resolved to stay for as long as Martin will have him.
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"Can I do something for you?" he asks softly, still pressed close. "Anything. You said I'm good at giving back rubs? I could do that." He's done them before, certainly, but never with such intimate purpose. He pulls back slightly, enough to meet John's eyes. "If that'd be okay, I... I'd really like to."
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"Oh, I—" John starts, before the impulse to accept collides with the bruised memory of Martin holding his hand like it was a wounded bird, and the awareness of just how much worse things get beneath his shirt. "I, er." He swallows, brow furrowing, then sits back, pulling his hands into his lap, his left thumb pressing anxiously against the waxy ruin of his right palm. "It's just— it's not that I don't want you to," he hastens to clarify, glancing up at Martin's face before his gaze drops again. "But there's a... a lot of scarring. If that's— if that would be t-too upsetting, then..." his shoulders hitch, brief and defeated. "I, um, I'd understand."
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When it turns out to be a sort of insecurity about his scars, Martin softens all the more, latent anxiety turning to near heartbreak. Christ, he hasn't exactly been very graceful about all the scars, has he? Asking questions about them, probably gawping more than John's used to. But it's not an impediment. It's not that he wants to avoid them. And he can't stand the idea that John's afraid to show himself.
He draws a breath slowly and reaches out to cover John's hand with his own, not quite touching the scarred palm but, he hopes, acknowledging it gently. "It's okay," he says softly, patiently seeking John's eyes. "I mean, thanks for telling me, but... Well, now I know. I'll be okay. Your scars don't upset me, except for just... knowing you've been hurt." He lifts a hand to John's cheek, trying gingerly to bolster him, a little unsure about the steps but intent on his purpose all the same. "I want to do this for you. And that wouldn't be worth much if I was put off by your scars, would it?"
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But even that is half selfish, and there are more purely selfish reasons on the list, too. He has relegated his scars to the back of his mind, and that is where he likes them; fresh sympathy has a way of dragging them back to the fore. He doesn't know if he can stomach it, if he can bear to see the look on Martin's face as he takes it all in. The first time they'd done this, it was different — not just because Martin had seen it all before, but because Martin already had context for nearly all of it. He'd seen him in hospital, he knew he'd been blown to hell in the House of Wax, he'd been the one to pull Riggs' knife out of his chest. There were no surprises (except for the rib scars, which are, from a purely visual standpoint, more perplexing than upsetting). Compared to that, John really isn't sure that simply saying that there's 'a lot of scarring' constitutes fair warning.
Martin touches his hand, and then his cheek, gently insisting that it's okay, that he isn't put off. John still can't quite bring himself to meet his eyes, but he leans into his touch with a soft grunt of acknowledgment. The real irony is that taking his shirt off isn't even a requirement: they might theoretically avoid the whole issue if he just kept it on. But that doesn't really appeal to him, either, from a sensory perspective. And once he realizes that agreeing but leaving his shirt on is just as unappealing as refusing outright, that's his mind made up. He wants a bloody back rub, and Martin wants to give him one, and he might not even ask about the scars now that John's demonstrated his own preemptive fussiness on the subject. He's being silly.
"Okay," he says, meeting Martin's gaze and pressing his hand over Martin's where it still rests against his cheek. He holds Martin's hand there for a beat or two before letting go, and turning to tsk at the rope pile he's left on the bedspread. "Might deal with this first, though — wouldn't want the cat to get ahold of it." With a faint, wry smile, he adds, "And there's decent odds I will not be interested in moving by the time you're finished with me."
It only takes a couple of minutes to tidy up the rope and return it to its usual spot, and a few additional seconds to rearrange the pillows for a more comfortable sprawl. John surveys the new arrangement for a beat, both in playful consideration and, if he's being truly honest, as a stalling technique while he internally braces himself. (It's fine. It'll be fine.) Then he breathes out a quiet, "Okay," and pulls off his shirt. He gives it a loose fold, less out of any real desire to be tidy and more for the sake of focusing on something that isn't Martin's expression, then sets the garment aside before risking a brief glance over at him.
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He ends up looking a little furtively, as furtively as John avoids his gaze, and... Christ, he really wasn't kidding. There is so much to see, all of it horrible and variously incomprehensible, Martin isn't sure where to look. He doesn't want to look at any of it. He doesn't want to fall prey to his instinctive horror and concern. John very clearly doesn't want that, likely doesn't need it. These are old wounds, and with his memory intact Martin would probably know the story behind all of them.
He still can't help lingering on a few — the complicated mark on his chest that looks like two overlapping scars, a bizarre sort of burn and a short, nasty little scar that looks to be right over his heart — but he's quick to return his eyes to John's as John finally looks at him.
"Okay," he says, his smile a bit strained but his determination to move forward quite genuine. He sits up a little straighter, squaring himself, and his smile becomes more of a wry grin. "Go on, then," he says, and with slightly self-deprecating theatricality: "Assume the position."
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"Oh, fuck off," John replies as he moves to obey, his tone suffused with enough fondness, humor, and relief that any suggestion of annoyance couldn't find a foothold even if it was present. "I won't be bullied." He lies down on his front, fussing with his pillow a bit until he's comfortable, and then puffs out a small, settling sigh. Not as relaxed as he could be, but not as tense as he could be, either, and there's still a smile lingering on his lips as he glances back up at Martin. "Impress me, then," he drawls.
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He has more important things to worry about.
"Okay," he murmurs to himself, settling close alongside John and leaning over him. Equal parts soft and serious, he says, "Let me know if something's not working, okay?"
He starts slow, careful, perhaps more than he should. He's nervous about touching John this way, the intimacy of it more than anything else; but it's nice, too, feeling the warm texture of his skin, alternately smooth and mottled. It doesn't take him long to find a particularly knotted area about the shoulders, and he clicks his tongue as he starts to work on it gently.
"Still hunching all the time, I see," he says with playful disapproval.
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Then Martin starts to work on him, and it's slow, a bit cautious, not unlike the first time they did this. But a light touch is no less pleasant than a firmer one would be, and John has missed this sort of attention more than he realized. He pulls in a slow breath and lets it out in an audible sigh, already beginning to melt into the mattress by the time Martin locates his first knot.
The playful criticism is another classic element of the proceedings, and John grins, keeping his eyes shut as he focuses on the careful pressure of Martin's hands. "If I had perfect posture, there'd be nothing for you to fix," he replies. He's about to add something ridiculous, like 'imagine how boring that would be,' but Martin cuts off that train of thought with a decisive press of his thumbs, and John instead lets out a soft grunt and a muzzy, "Christ, that's good."
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"Yeah?" he says, managing to sound almost coy. He shifts his weight, applying a little gentle pressure to the base of John's neck. "Well good, because you need it."
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Objection so registered, he lets his hand flop back down onto the bedspread. "And me in a vulnerable position," he adds in a drowsy approximation of indignation as Martin continues to knead him into liquid form. "Was gonna tell you how good you are at this, but now I shan't."
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