loficharm: (consternation)
Martin Blackwood ([personal profile] loficharm) wrote2022-06-01 08:40 pm
Entry tags:

let me show you what you're worth

September 23rd, 2021


"The bloody arrogance," Martin snaps as he shuts the door and locks it with a sharp flick of his wrist. He has contained the rising boil of his fury, if barely, for the entire walk home from the thoroughly unpleasant encounter with Sylvie; limited it to silent (if practically visible) radiation until now, as they enter the relative privacy of their flat, and not a moment longer. "The sheer fucking — god, what is it about us that we attract the exact same type of magical arsehole every time?"

He stumbles out of his shoes and yanks off his coat and practically throws it over the back of the couch as he moves through the flat on a direct line for the kitchen. He grabs the kettle and starts filling it with the water at full blast. "It's always our fault for not just deferring to their ideas about how things work. Like they're so fucking superior and we're these funny little — i-insects she found on the sidewalk and decided to poke with a stick for a while. Talking to me like I'm a bloody child."

As angry as he is — he hasn't felt this angry in a long while, and he's not even totally sure why — it's starting to feel weird, swearing so much. He shuts off the water and sets the kettle on the stove as gently as he can manage and flicks the burner on before pressing a hand to his forehead and forcing himself to breathe.

"Sorry," he says, his tone still terse, his jaw still clenched. He drops his hand and finally looks at John. "I just hate it, I hate when people — when they act like that, and the way they talk to you, like they — like they know you, like they have any idea—"

He cuts himself off again, his gaze shifting quick and hot to a dusty corner of the floor. It takes him a moment to push out the unwelcome memory of Jacob Riggs, hand around his throat while he spewed all his ignorant assumptions. He shudders slightly as he forces it away, drawing another breath through his teeth.

"Not like it's even new," he says bitterly. "Everyone did this back home, too. They all reduce you to this, this title, this idea, like what happened to you was... like it's the only thing worth knowing, like everything else is just—" He gestures, a vague flap of his hand, frustration over the struggle to find his words. He can't keep up with his own anger, moving faster than he can speak, and yet he can't stop now that he's started. "Just details! Just a bunch of awful little footnotes nobody bothers to read. What are you, like it's — like that's the most interesting thing about you when it's not, and it never has been. Christ."

He stares balefully at the kettle, wishing it would get on his level, knowing he filled it too much and now he's bought himself an awkward amount of time to just stand there ranting. He needs to stop, but he doesn't know what that would even begin to feel like.

"Well they don't get to know," he snaps. "They don't get to know that you— you hum to yourself when you do the dishes and you have this very specific system for putting the mugs back in the cabinet. Or that you did improv in uni, or that you have a bunch of random bits of Shakespeare memorized, or that you know a frankly weird amount of facts about emulsifiers, or — or that you're funny, like really funny in the most ridiculous ways when you have the chance to show it. They don't know how much you hate auto-tuning, or that you're an incredibly pleasant drunk, or that you have this particular voice you use when you talk to cats. What you sound like in the morning, how good your hair smells after a shower. They don't get any of it, and they don't deserve it. Those things are mine."

He stops short, drawing a shaky breath and feeling a bit like he might be about to topple over. The kettle finally starts to work toward whistling, and Martin moves to switch off the burner. He stares at it for a moment, trying to imagine himself getting down cups, putting tea together, having a sit down and a cuppa like that might fix him right now. Then he breathes out slowly and turns back around.

"That's what you are," he says, making some effort to slow down, to soften. "All the messy little human things. Not what happened to you. Not what was forced on you and not the choices you had to make. And it's everyone else's loss."

Enough. Stop. He looks at John, blinking, breathing, not sure where things possibly go from here and unable to regret it.
statement_ends: (soft)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-07-08 03:53 am (UTC)(link)
Martin fumbles a bit, the implication that he would take charge in this, too, apparently catching him by surprise. It's a slight hiccup, but not enough for John to regret asking. He'd wanted clarification regarding Martin's intentions, and in a broader sense, that's what he got: clear confirmation that, even within the bounds of this new dynamic, Martin isn't presuming anything. Not even the relative neutrality of removing John's shirt, which could almost be considered outerwear given the undershirt he's wearing beneath it.

John lowers his own hands to make way for Martin's nascent reach. "Sure," he replies. His smile takes on a playful slant as he adds a lightly magnanimous, "By all means."
statement_ends: (sweetie)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-07-08 11:29 pm (UTC)(link)
A bit of humor doesn't quite fix the mood — playfulness wasn't really what Martin seemed to be going for — but it makes it easier to settle back into it, equilibrium reestablished. John's smile softens as Martin unbuttons his shirt, his movements gentle but efficient as he slides the garment off his shoulders and plunks it into their hamper.

Then he retrieves John's joggers, and John barely has enough time to assume that he'll be handling that part on his own before Martin is crouching before him, as if... well, any obvious comparisons evade him. He doesn't feel patronized, like he's a child receiving necessary assistance. But Martin's attitude isn't what John would call deferential, either. He is offering help because he wants to, a little playful, but insistent.

John's blush deepens, but his smile widens as he obediently steps into his pajamas, setting a hand on Martin's shoulder to steady himself. "Thank you," he murmurs.
statement_ends: (welp!)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-07-15 10:22 pm (UTC)(link)
This isn't the sort of role reversal that John had ever thought to anticipate, for reasons that he thinks are fairly obvious. They have different needs, different wants, and while John is happy to play a specific role for the purpose of achieving a specific result on Martin's end, there's never been a tidy equivalent for him. Certainly not in terms of production value, for lack of a better phrase: for all the times that Martin has spoiled him or fussed over him, he's never done it quite like this before, leading him along with such insistence. It's gentle, and adoring, but there's no question of who's steering the proverbial ship.

And while John is finding that he quite enjoys Martin leading, he is still unaccustomed to being led. He moves to the bed without objection, nudging The Bishop a little to one side so he can position himself nearer the middle, and then catches himself before he can flop down onto his front. It's the most tempting move, inviting a back rub, but he doesn't want to presume Martin's intentions or nudge him in a direction that might differ from whatever he has in mind. He hesitates for a beat, then settles a little more deliberately onto his side: easy to guide one way or the other.

That's his thought process as it pertains to Martin, anyway. Whether The Bishop has any inkling of the power dynamics currently at play or whether he simply presumes himself to supersede them is impossible to judge, but once John has settled himself, the cat picks his way over the bedspread and enthusiastically hurls himself down into the little spoon position, his back against John's chest and his head nudging up under his chin. "Oh, I see," John murmurs, curling his fingers into The Bishop's belly fur and giving Martin a faintly hapless look. He has no idea if this qualifies as an interference or not, but for the moment, he lets himself enjoy the cat's rumbling purrs.
statement_ends: (smile - daww)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-07-19 02:37 am (UTC)(link)
Martin gives no indication that the cat is a problem; if anything, he looks pleased, though he's still plainly weighing his options. John relaxes a bit, reassured that whatever Martin is considering, it seems it won't upset the cat or their current configuration. He can get comfortable.

Or as comfortable as he can get when there's a question hanging in the air — even one as innocuous as what lovely thing Martin intends to do to him. He finds himself biting back an anticipatory little smirk as the mattress dips, but there's no hiding the grin it blossoms into when he feels Martin's fingers slide into his hair. The sound that escapes him isn't that different to The Bishop's continuing purrs.

"It's perfect," he sighs, tucking his chin in so he can briefly nuzzle between the cat's ears. Then he returns Martin's gaze, his eyes already half-lidded from his ministrations. "Love you," he adds, the vowels drawn out in muzzy satisfaction.
statement_ends: (oh gosh)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-07-24 07:06 pm (UTC)(link)
The first time Martin kissed his eyelids, John was arrested by the novelty of it. The second time, it's the inescapable symbolism that strikes him, and his breath hitches. Every part of you, Martin says — even the parts that have been hijacked and turned to other uses, made into tools by and for something else. John swallows thickly, his hand drawing back from the cat's chest as he pivots more towards Martin, as thoughtless and automatic as a plant turning towards the sun. One arm is still pinned beneath him, but he tentatively reaches out with the other, the back of his hand brushing against Martin's hip in quiet acknowledgment: that he has John's undivided attention, that he is all John wants.

He almost hesitates to open his eyes, as if, by keeping them shut, he can more easily keep this for himself. The warmth of Martin's touch and the care he's taking — the care he always takes with him — are things that don't have to be seen to be known. But Martin wants to see him, the suggestion communicated clearly through the brush of his thumb against John's cheek, and John cannot resist him. He looks up at Martin, gazing at him as if Martin is the whole world, rapt and unblinking.

The kiss doesn't quite muffle the small, broken noise John makes in response to Martin's reassurance. His wrist flexes, the desire to reach budging up against the desire to do only what he is told, and his fingers gently clasp a fold of Martin's shirt in compromise. "Okay," he breathes. "All yours."
statement_ends: (muchas smooches)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-07-26 04:22 am (UTC)(link)
John's eyes are heavily lidded, but he keeps them open, unable to resist the pull to watch as Martin lifts his hand and begins to favor it with kisses. It isn't anxiety that compels him, though he can distantly imagine why it might, under different circumstances. They've never done anything quite like this before, with Martin assuming such complete control. John first took up the proverbial reins out of caution and simple practicality, and has largely kept them out of habit: a habit that conveniently tended to align with Martin's own preferences. Deviations from the norm aren't unheard of, but they're usually approached with more preamble and careful discussion. It's rare for them to just do something new when too much novelty has the potential to backfire.

But is this too much? Should he be worrying about the intentions of someone who so plainly just wants to blanket him in the kind of affection that he has already happily received in more modest doses? No; this might be uncharted territory, but they've come too far for him to distrust not just Martin's intentions, but his ability to execute them. He has held the reins because it made sense, or because Martin preferred not to; he hasn't withheld them out of fear of Martin steering them straight into a proverbial ditch. And now, he relinquishes them as easily as breathing.

And Christ, the rewards are both immediate and considerable. Martin guides him to settle more comfortably on his back — the better to both enjoy Martin's ministrations and resume petting the cat — and begins to trace his fingers over John's skin, the journey interspersed with familiar, inquiring taps. John hums his acquiescence, warmed by every implicit is this okay? even and especially because Martin knows him so well, by now, that none of the spots he chooses give John a moment's pause.

An irrepressible smile has made itself at home on John's lips by the time Martin returns to them, and it stays there even as John parts them, letting the kiss deepen, eager to oblige. The hand that isn't absently petting the cat lifts off the bedspread to gently clasp Martin's arm, his thumb tracing a slow arc over the fabric of his shirt. Presumptuous, maybe, but he can't quite help himself, and he hums again, soft and satisfied.
statement_ends: (begrudging amusement)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-07-29 03:26 am (UTC)(link)
Knowing that Martin intends to spoil him is one thing; experiencing it is another. He can't quite squash the feeling that this is excessive — not in the sense of being too much to bear, but in an 'embarrassment of riches' sort of way, with emphasis on 'embarrassment.' It's not enough to override the fundamental delight of being so openly treasured, but it is certainly enough to make him blush and even giggle under Martin's fond scrutiny.

"It's perfect," he replies, his tone just dry enough to suggest that Martin already knew as much and hardly needs the verbal confirmation. Nor does he need John to float the idea of what he ought to do next, judging by the way he's already rubbing at John's shoulder... but he supposes he has no right to begrudge Martin stealing some of his tricks, given the general role reversal they've settled into. If he wants it, he'll have to request it.

John settles a hand just below Martin's wrist, subtly encouraging him to keep his hand where it is. "Well, if it's not too much to ask," he murmurs, "I think I could stand a bit more of this." He sweeps his thumb over Martin's wrist for emphasis, then lowers his hand to pluck at his undershirt. "Might need some help taking this off, though. I'd understand if that's a bridge too far."
statement_ends: (sure bud)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-07-31 09:45 pm (UTC)(link)
Even with Martin's assistance, John still lets out a grunt of effort as he sits back up. Being upright feels like far too much work, especially after how magnificently Martin had just been treating him, and he has to fight the urge to let his momentum carry him forward into a slump against Martin's shoulder.

He successfully fights the urge long enough to parse Martin's question, and long enough to remind himself that giving in would be fundamentally unhelpful. But then it occurs to him that Martin could certainly get his shirt most of the way up as long as he remains upright-adjacent. Getting it off the rest of the way could be a bridge they cross when they come to it, and in the meantime, he could be enjoying what a nice resting spot Martin makes.

Well, he can't argue with that logic. "Mhmmm," he agrees even as he lets himself slowly pitch forward, draping himself over Martin's shoulder with a sigh of relief.
statement_ends: (sweetie)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-08-08 12:35 am (UTC)(link)
As expected, Martin gamely works John's shirt up to his shoulders before pausing to consider his next move. John remains patiently, passively slumped, his eyes closed and a contented smile fixed on his face as he waits to see how Martin proceeds. That smile soon blooms into a grin when Martin ends up cradling him like an overlarge child to finish the job, supporting him carefully as he draws the shirt over John's head. He grins at the inescapable awkwardness as Martin works the shirt down one arm at a time, and he grins because it's such a tender, sweet solution to a silly problem that John engineered on purpose. Even being a bit of a shit hasn't thrown Martin off his stride; he is still making sure that John feels openly, flagrantly treasured. If he wasn't so thoroughly soothed on top of all that, he thinks he might burst with it.

John cracks his eyes back open after Martin lowers him back onto the bed, and his grin softens at the way Martin's looking at him. "You spoil me," John murmurs in fond accusation. He reaches up, his fingers drifting a drowsy passage down Martin's arm until they reach his hand and curl around his palm.

The Bishop stands, the better to turn a half-circle and flop decisively back against John's side. "Oof," John mutters, giving the cat a placating pat before telling him, "You don't spoil me enough."
statement_ends: (smile - wee)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-09-06 12:32 am (UTC)(link)
There is a curious sort of liminality that John sinks into whenever Martin gives him a proper back rub like this. Part of him could just doze off, the passage of Martin's hands leaving warmth and relaxation in their wake. Nothing is required of him — certainly nothing that demands conscious thought or deliberate intention — and he knows Martin wouldn't begrudge him if his drowsy hums of pleasure dwindled into actual sleep. But he can't. Soothing as this is, the ignorance of slumber is unimaginable. He is too curious to know what happens next, what Martin's next move will be. Early in their relationship, the uncertainty might have unnerved him; now, it intrigues. He may not know exactly what's coming, but he knows he doesn't want to miss it.

So he lies there, too focused on Martin's ministrations to sleep, too soothed to make coherent commentary about it. He feels as if he ought to demonstrate his continued wakefulness, though, perhaps with something more salient than his usual groans of appreciation.

"We really don't talk enough about your hands," he muzzily observes, half-muffled against his pillow. (The Bishop, apparently mistaking the comment as being for him, lets out a soft trill.) John cracks a smile, but keeps his eyes shut. "Always going on about mine. Not half as clever."
statement_ends: (downcast - mischief)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-09-11 03:30 am (UTC)(link)
John lets out a low chuckle, half delight at Martin's willingness to compliment him about this so casually, half bashful self-satisfaction over the compliment itself. He still marvels, sometimes, over how compatible they turned out to be along that particular axis; it had initially felt so unlikely — if not outright impossible — that he doesn't think he'll ever take it for granted. But they've earned this ease, this ability to treat it lightly. And he's far too physically comfortable to get maudlin about it.

"Perhaps," he allows, "but let's not erase your own hands' contributions. They usually play an important role." He grunts softly as Martin locates another knot, then spends the rest of his current lungful of air on a contented purr. "Unsung heroes," he concludes, muzzy but decisive.
statement_ends: (muchas smooches)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2022-09-14 03:57 am (UTC)(link)
The balance between curiosity and torpor can be delicate, and it swings a little more towards warm lethargy as Martin bends to kiss his hair. Taken as a whole, it's been a novel evening — but this, here and now, is so soothingly familiar that what happens next feels less like a question and more like a scene they've rehearsed a hundred times: so solid and comfortable that even a little light improvisation isn't enough to throw them off their stride, or change the direction in which things are headed.

John's eyes remain shut, but he can feel Martin shift his weight on the mattress, and he hardly needs the encouragement to turn towards him, snuggling near the comforting warmth of his body as if on instinct. The kiss is telegraphed through the brush of Martin's fingers against his cheek and the whisper of his breath against his skin, and John meets him with a quiet hum. One hand lights on Martin's side, then drifts round to his back as John pulls himself a bit closer.