loficharm | let me show you what you're worth

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jonathan sims

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.

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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."

It is tempting, with the sort of indulgent mood he's adopted, to make a show of considering the request; to hum and tip his head thoughtfully, draw it out. A little teasing, a little nod to all the times John's done that sort of thing with him. But he thinks better of it. It's not the same kind of circumstances. It's not a game, really; this has all stemmed from a robust and earnest desire to make John feel good, to know he is beloved. So, while his smile remains a little, coy, there is no hesitation when he answers, "Of course."

He bends down to kiss John once more, a brief parting peck, and gently insinuates one arm beneath John's back, coaxing him to sit up. "It's no trouble," he murmurs, his hands slipping to John's sides, clutching the hem of John's undershirt in much the same way as John had tentatively touched his earlier. Here he does hesitate, drawing back a few scant but critical inches to look John in the eye. Always wanting to be sure. "May I?"

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.

Martin stifles a laugh as John sort of collapses against him, less concerned with the logistics of getting his shirt off than he is with being comfortable. Fair enough. This is a situation Martin engineered; he can maneuver his way through it. "As you wish," he says wryly, and shifts a little to nestle John a little more easily against him, reaching around to pull up the undershirt. The Bishop meows at them, mildly perturbed by the disruption to his own comfort, and Martin answers with a sympathetic, "I know, I know," as he carefully pulls John's shirt up to his shoulders.

At this point, it would be easiest to have John sit up properly, but Martin instead places one hand round the back of John's head, easing him into a supportive cradle as he undresses him — first over the head, then one arm at a time. It's a little awkward, but Martin finds himself smiling as he does it. He likes it when John becomes too comfortable to move. That was the point. No sense disrupting that.

With him finally divested, Martin lays him back down, slow and gentle, his smile only warming as he bends over him.

"There we are," he says, no rush to move ahead, just wanting to look at him for a moment.

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."

"Mhm," Martin agrees with a certain amount of pride, and chuckles at the cat's mild histrionics. He curls his fingers around John's, lifting the other hand to brush through his hair. After a moment's indulgence, he says softly, "Let's have you on your front, then."

The Bishop lifts his head to stare at them in vague accusation as they reorient themselves again, but he stays put, mollified once John's settled back down alongside him. Martin is grateful as ever that the cat is so generally tolerant, enough that having him in the bedroom for this was a perfectly feasible idea. And that he's content enough to remain curled up at John's side, leaving Martin to his work.

He relishes this work; cherishes every low, satisfied groan he can draw out, delights in the way John just sort of melts beneath his hands. The implicit trust, the considerable reward of seeing him pampered and comforted. Being allowed to touch him and being able to do some real, tangible good. Even outside the sort of reverent mood he's set for himself, he will never take this for granted. He moves his hands slowly over John, warming him, attending patiently to each point of held tension until he can feel the muscles loosen, moving on to the next. Studying the sharp lines of him, the pattern of scars dotting his back and sides, the way his spine arches when he finds a particularly good spot. Christ, he's beautiful. If Martin were not so focused — if treating John right, spoiling him, weren't such a high priority, he might lose himself in the desire to start kissing him again, the back of his neck, his shoulders, before turning him back onto his side and laying down beside him to kiss him properly until they pass out together. That may be the ultimate destination here, a foregone conclusion from his current ministrations, but this isn't about him or his wants, and he has no intention of taking for himself. Not right now.

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."

No matter how intent his focus or confident his approach, Martin still feels himself blushing a little. It's true, his particular fondness for John's hands usually takes center stage, while John's appreciation of his physicality is often more general than that. It's surprisingly nice to be on the receiving end, and were he less locked into his task here, it might make him falter. Instead, it's only the work of a moment to pull himself back together, drawing a breath and pressing down between John's shoulder blades, gently, slowly pushing out the lingering tension.

"Don't know about that," he says idly once he's let up. "I'm rather of the opinion you're at least as clever with yours. Don't know where I'd be without those fingers." He smirks, distantly surprised he's reached the point where he can talk around this subject so easily. "Considerably less satisfied on a regular basis, I suppose."

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.

Martin smiles softly, accepting John's murmured convictions with a little hum and a fresh bloom of warmth in his chest. He takes his time with the massage before replying, drawing patiently to a natural conclusion as he works his way down to the small of John's back, then back up to his shoulders as if checking his work. He lets up gently, gradually, until he finally comes to a halt, breathing out in quiet satisfaction.

"True enough," he says finally. "I can't think of anything more important, really."

He bends down and, at last, indulges himself with a soft kiss pressed to John's hair. He stays there a moment, breathing him in, before lowering himself down to lie alongside the long angle of his body. "Come here," he whispers, his fingers settling tenderly on John's cheek as he moves in to kiss him properly.

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.

They fall into a comfortable synchronicity as John moves in, as Martin folds his arms around him and hugs him close. There may still be a facet of novelty to the exact particulars, but when all is said and done there is still nothing that feels more natural or familiar than this: the two of them holding each other, warm and safe.

There is still a piece of Martin that feels astonished — he suspects it will never truly fade away — that this is familiar, that it's so natural, that John trusts and loves him so much. But it's a quiet background murmur, scarcely worth his attention. John has his attention right now: how nicely he fits in Martin's arms, how peaceful and relaxed he feels, the warmth of his breath, his lips.

"Love you," Martin whispers between each slow, patient kiss. And again: "Love you."

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