agoodyarn | for corkscrewed: of all the ridiculous nonsense...

Don't think the world could handle two of either of us, honestly.

[ his voice remains quiet, but he does settle a bit, some of the anxiety draining from his shoulders. his hand slides back up to the center of jon's chest, fingers against it; he doesn't shy away from the scars. instead, he treats them with the same gentle, fierce fondness. ]

This is nice. I'm glad we got to do this.

[ and he won't try to - hide himself, or his body's more physical reactions anymore, even if he is still distinctly embarrassed by them. ]

[ He waits, until Martin's started to relax, begun to settle before he leans down to press a kiss to his head.]

You're not wrong. This is... rather nice, really.

The bed in my flat isn't nearly as comfortable as this one. Just warning you now.

[ it is very possible that he is playing with jon's chest hair. ]

Temper your expectations.

[ That earns him a tiny little huff, the smallest sort of snort.]

We could always go to mine, you realize. I still have one.

[ He just spent so little time at it, given his tendency to overwork himself. But it did have a rather lovely four poster bed that might be less difficult to enjoy with someone else there.]

I'm no longer a wanted suspect, after all.

Wouldn't mind seeing your flat, honestly.

[ martin, well- martin doesn't love spending a lot of time in his, either. it's always felt a little too cramped after the incident with jane prentiss.

and he's just a man, and he's easily given to temptation, which is why he's going to start kissing jon's chest again. it's right there. ]

[ Jon is also a man, or mostly a man anyway. Man shaped, certainly. Mannish. As close as is important in this case.]

It's nothing impressive.

[ But as Martin starts kissing his chest, his hand digs into the hair a little. Not in frustration or displeasure. Just a more intense touch, a little more pressure even if the touch is still precise.]

Edited 2019-01-30 06:19 (UTC)

Yeah, but it's yours. Which - sounded way sappier than I meant it to now that I've said it out loud.

[ he shivers again, just very slightly. ]

Can't believe you thought I fancied Tim.

Can't believe you're mentioning Tim right now.

[ And if he's letting his head tilt back, offering his neck and Jaw to Martin's attentions, well, it feels very good. Good enough he can ignore the very thing he'd just (minorly) fussed at him over.]

I'm just saying...

[ hey, martin will pounce on that opportunity, treating the tender skin there with the reverence it deserves. (he will not suck a mark into the skin, just because he knows jon would literally murder him - but he will use just a tiny bit of tongue and teeth, right against his pulse point.) ]

S'funny. Is all.

[ Jon is, as one might expect, a rather vocal man, and with the attention to his throat as it is, Martin will more than likely feel the low hum of satisfaction that he makes as much as he hears it. And yet-]

Most people, I expect, would prefer Tim.

Most people are wrong.

[ that hum of satisfaction delights him; his hand flexes on jon's chest and he focuses on just doing that now, trying to pull whatever noise he can out of the archivist. ]

[ He does get what he wants, as much because Jon has little interest in holding himself back in that regard as because Martin really has figured out what he happens to enjoy at his neck and shoulder.]

Then I suppose... I should be glad... you decided to, er, buck the trend. As it were.

Edited 2019-01-30 07:04 (UTC)

[ he laughs a little despite himself, using the backs of his fingers to sweep a small line down the center of jon's chest. ]

God, I love you.

[ a whispered confession, but something he feels like probably isn't a secret anymore. he doesn't realize how awkward this might make the moment, but he doesn't care; he has jon's bare skin under his lips and beneath his fingers and just a pile of, well. horny, affectionate contentment, really. ]

[ It doesn't make the moment awkward so much as nearly painful, a pang deep in his chest screaming at him, reminding him all the reasons why he shouldn't do this, why all he's doing is dragging Martin down into whatever depths he's going to end up going to. He should say something, should tell Martin that he's chaining himself to a sinking ship, that now is the time to run before the connection gets any deeper, any stronger.

But he thinks he might have missed that opportunity.

He thinks he might have missed it before Martin had followed him here. And he wishes that he'd been more attentive, had noticed, had done something before now.

He doesn't want to doom him. That is the last thing he wants. He doesn't- he loves. He most certainly loves. There are things and places and yes, people he loves. If someone asked him if he loved Martin before now, he'd tell them something rude and potentially offensive.

That doesn't mean he didn't. That he doesn't. Love is...

Love is such a strange and multifaceted word. Who he loves, how- how is the word, isn't it? Love isn't a feeling, isn't a sensation. It's what you do, it's what you choose. It's raising a child you don't want while your own heart is bleeding. It’s fucking someone you don't want to, and screaming at them for it at the end, finding out afterwards that once that single stupid piece is missing, there is still so much. It's working beside someone who hates you, loathes you really, and wanting a happiness for them you will never see and certainly never be a part of. It’s messy and complicated and sometimes it’s awful but it’s not-

Love should be telling Martin to get off of him, to go away. Love should have been sending Martin home the moment he'd arrived, closing the door in his face, putting a few cracks in the strange sparkling diamond of affection he's somehow managed to compress within Martin's tall, awkward frame. Love isn't selfish. What he's doing now-

Some part of it thinks it might just be the monster, the hungry wanting thing that needs to know how deep the feelings go, how far, how much he can do to Martin, can cause for Martin, before that diamond shatters.

He wants Martin, wants him here, wants him beside him and wrapped around him, wants to kiss him over and over again and run his hands over his body and make him feel delicious and satisfied and joyful. He wants those things like a flame inside of him, one he'd hardly realized he'd set even as it blazes through him.

But he won't ever call that love. Not from him.

If he loved Martin... he never would have touched him.]

Martin...

[ It's a sound, a sound of longing and want and warmth, of need and desperation. Not his body, not his cock, for goodness sake. Heaven help him, it was all he could give Martin. His love was not enough to keep his fingers from holding Martin tighter to him, pressing kisses to his temple. It wasn't enough.

He's not sure it ever will be.]

Edited (Formatting) 2019-01-30 15:19 (UTC)

[ he realizes, a little belatedly, that those words carry a lot of pressure. that when faced with i love you, most people are probably going to feel like it's expected of them in return. martin exists in that uncertain limbo for just a second, waiting for jon's response - and then he hears his name in his voice again, feels the way his fingers flex against his skin, and that's enough. that's all he needs. it's as much as he could ever ask for.

jon can never belong to him, and he knows it. this will be enough, because he knows it has to be.

but the sound of longing in jon's voice has martin turning his head up, catching the other man's mouth with his own, hungrier than before as he resists the stupid, embarrassing urge to just squirm against him. his face is flushed when he pulls away, knuckling gently against the center of jon's chest. ]

I'm going to, um, take a moment, in the bathroom, okay?

[ softly, sweetly, right up against jon's chin. ]

[ But after that- after that, how is he supposed to let go? How is he supposed to just let Martin slip away? He takes a breath, two, and presses his lips lightly against whatever bit of Martin happens to be close enough before looking up at him.]

Don't.

[ That is- it comes out harsher, more of a command than he means it to. Now that he's broken that open, now that he's admitted all of it to himself, exactly the mess he's gotten them both into, he can't go back. Won't go back.

But his voice is softer as he continues, shifting a little beneath Martin and, with delicate touches, trying to turn him. Sitting up, he urges the albeit larger man to press his back against his own front, moves his leg up and around.]

Don't go. You don't- you don't have to go.

Jon-

[ but martin will yield, because he always yields to jon, leaning slightly back against the other man. he's catching his breath, trying to keep himself on an even keel.

his jeans are slightly uncomfortable. ]

I'm not going to ask you to-

[ but there's a hopeful waver in his voice. ]

I can take care of it.

[ Until Martin is in his arms, settled against him, there's a tension in his muscles and he holds his breath. Once it's done, though, once Martin acquiesces, he softens again and lets himself wrap around the other man, puts his arms at Martin's sides, his legs outside of his and bent slightly for comfort. His nose nuzzles lightly at the back of Martin's jaw, against the lobe of his ear, and he presses a kiss there before he speaks.]

I know.

I know you wouldn't ask for even this.

[ He considers for a moment before letting his lips run feather light along the shell of Martin's ear, his breath soft and warm against the back. When he gets to the bottom, he kisses again before taking the lobe between his lips. He gives it a single, very light, tug before drawing back only an inch or so.]

But you can take care of it right here.

Um-

[ martin's breath catches in his diaphragm at the feeling of jon's lips on his earlobe, and jon will be able to feel the way he stiffens and shifts slightly.

christ. is he really about to do this? ]

If you think- if you get uncomfortable-

[ there's an anxious strain in his voice, but he's fumbling the button of his jeans loose. he's nearly falling apart with nerves, but he wants this, too- he does. ]

But- okay.

[ He feels the stiffening, and there's a moment where he's unsure if it's a good thing, if he really has made a mistake. But once Martin starts shifting, it becomes clear enough. It's just... been a while. Since he's done anything like this, since he's had to. Or rather, since he had anyone to do such a thing with.]

There's nothing to be uncomfortable about, Martin.

[ He doesn't pull away, because that would be cruel, that would be a tease and that's never been his way. Teasing during intimacy, playing games like that, it had seemed a gross violation of the whole... of everything that was supposed to be going on.

Jokes, certainly. Play, teasing in the sense of a line or a tap on the nose; he's still himself. He's still difficult and exacting and precise, still a bit of a control freak when it comes right down to it. But to draw away right now would be

Wrong. Very wrong.]

Unless you would prefer the bathroom, prefer to be alone. I don't think that's the case, however.

No, you're right. I, um- I would rather not be alone right now. Rather have you here.

[ it's been a long time for himself, too, just because - well, it's hard to foster a lot of outside relationships when you work at the institute. nothing had ever rubbed that in as much as two weeks spent inside his flat with no one making the effort to check on him in person.

but that's not the thing he wants to think about right now. he wants to think about the warmth of jon's front against his back as he hesitantly pulls himself free from his jeans and boxers. ]

--thank you.

[ quietly, shivery. he's stupidly aroused already. ]

[ Another kiss, softer, just behind his ear, careful not to press against the ear itself as the sound of it could be unpleasant. But the delicate skin there, that he'll kiss, nuzzle, mouth at a little even, though his tongue stays firmly in his mouth.

His hands stay at Martin's sides, curled around either one, the sides of his thumbs running up and down in a slow circuit.]

Would you like me to stay quiet, or would you prefer I talk?

[ He can't help that he knows this. Martin hadn't exactly been secretive about it.]

I've noticed you enjoy when I say your name.

You should talk. I, um- I do.

[ and, trying not to die of sheepishness, he begins to actually stroke himself. he can't believe that he's doing this in front of jon, with jon's hands on his sides. ]

I like your voice. [ his own is quiet, uneven, his eyes shut. ] I like hearing you talk. I like that you're here- with me.

[ Jon considers.

Usually, there's no shortage of things to say, nothing that he isn't content to comment on, especially when it has to do with Martin or his performance. But right now, there is only one thing that Martin is doing to be quite frank, and it is not something that could possibly be helped in any way by his direct commentary. He knows it's a small miracle that he'd gotten him to stay here, in his arms, as it is. But he hadn't wanted to give this up, the intimacy they were sharing, the important part of it that they shared even as the places where they differed tried to tug them apart.

Even where his sense tried to do the same.

His mind drifts, then, as he lets himself nuzzle slow and sweet against the back of Martin's neck, the crux of his shoulder, the line of his jaw. Eventually, perhaps inspired by their original plans, he begins to speak, in verse of all things.

Hopefully, Martin would appreciate it. ]

You say you love; but with a voice
Chaster than a nun’s, who singeth
The soft Vespers to herself
While the chime-bell ringeth –
O love me truly!

[ A kiss, right against the pulse of his throat.]

You say you love; but with a smile
Cold as sunrise in September,
As you were Saint Cupid’s nun,
And kept his weeks of Ember.
O love me truly!

[ part of martin wants to laugh at how gentle and sweet jon is being, how at odds this is with the man he had been childishly infatuated with for as long as he could remember now. keats, of all people, combined with the warmth against his bare skin, the comforting and steady presence at his back.

jon is reciting keats to him, from memory, and his throat clogs up with- something. love, maybe, or gratitude, or just that same contentment, blossoming up and out from where he's ferreted it away, deep in the center of his chest. ]

Jon-

[ it's a little warning, maybe, by the time he's pushing himself over that edge with the sound of jon's voice sweet in his ear. he climaxes with a gasp of breath, with a tension and curl of his legs and a hitch of his shoulders, before he spills against his own hand and stomach.

he slumps back against him then, comfortable and loose-limbed, giving himself just a moment. he'll clean up, he'll put his shirt back on, but first he wants to savor this. memorize it, maybe. ]

for corkscrewed: of all the ridiculous nonsense...

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