Fic: Flashfire (RPS, JB/SG) Collab with copperbadge and cruentum
Title: Flashfire
Author: amand_r, copperbadge, & cruentum
Fandom: RPS, JB/SG
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3,000 ish
Author's Notes: Clearly we are bad influences on each other. Beta loving from 51stcenturyfox and her whippy beta sparkle-juice-thing. It tastes like nanaimo bars. snaxcident betaed the beta, Jesus! gypsylady and spiderine helped with the title (though this is not what they picked). thaddeusfavour and paragraphs waved the sparkly pom-poms.
Summary: Being married to John Barrowman is a little bit like holding onto the tail of a comet.
Also, please see the beautiful book cover that laurab1 did for us, entitled, The Amazing Adventures of Captain Jack, by Clare Barrowman-Casey , and yeah, we mean CJ the dog.
Being married to John Barrowman is a little bit like holding onto the tail of a comet. Not that he's not used to it; it's been what, fifteen years now, and he still thinks of John as the gorgeous naked I'd hit it onstage at that little theatre in the West End. Just...busier, now.
It's not that Scott doesn't want anything he has; he adores John, loud and clumsy and a complete fashion victim, though he knows his smiles look a little long-suffering sometimes. Still, it's worth it, and not just when John does idiot romantic things like declare in a book, a published book strangers will read, that he can't live without him.
Like right now, actually, when John is trying to show him how to actually flambé something, even though he has never in his life set anything meant to be eaten on fire. Scott stands back and leans against the counter. John is applying the whiskey and waving his hands and talking in fast forward about how Carole had told him something completely unrelated but the conversation will wend its way right back to the matter at hand eventually, the matter being that Scott has deftly palmed the lighter John thinks he needs to make their poached halibut in red wine go up like a bloody Roman Candle.
These are the things he can't live without actually, John's excitement, his talking, the hand waving, the fact that he's making this for Scott even though a) it's never going to work and b) Scott will never eat it, even if it does. John's bare feet on the tile. The fact that John writes about him in the book in such a horrible way. Cameras in the taxis, those awful kisses in front of the cameras. The flashbulb in his face, that is secondary.
"So then when you--" John looks down and sees that the lighter is gone, and Scott smirks. The comet rounds the sun and comes right by for a return pass. "You took it. Give it."
Scott saunters from the room. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Sometimes some clever fucker at a mag will try to make it out like Scott's a telly character, Ianto to John's Jack, because really: John is Jack. Nobody's denying that. But Scott's not desperate, and he's not sad, and he's not a kid, and most importantly he's nobody's butler (Plus: better hair than Gareth David-Lloyd will ever have, thank you very much.).
He doesn't look after John. Not like that. He just, you know...is married to the guy. So he would be the prime suspect in any suspicious homicide. And he has faced the truth that if John goes before his time it's going to be suspicious -- setting himself on fire, falling from a great height, some kind of unlikely onstage accident involving high heels and a dare.
"Seriously, give me the lighter," John yells, and then, "NEVERMIND! I'll just light some paper towel on the gas range," which is when Scott zips the lighter straight at his head.
John, who can fall over just walking in a straight line, catches it without even looking up.
God. Three seconds of competence and Scott falls for him all over again. Depressing.
He watches him from the kitchen doorway, tries not to feel like a bird looking into some family's life for Easter, or Christmas. Something's going to get roasted. John invites them to their house, And here's the bedroom, and here's where I take a piss, and he's the one who worries if anyone's going to come by and knock on their windows sometime. John doesn't think in calculations, he thinks in sparkle. Scott thinks in fangirl grimaces pressed to the glass.
"You're gonna turn it black," he says and can't quite bear to watch, but can't look away how tongue out, eyebrows drawn John inhales then exhales with the flame. Nearly drops the thing. Scott rolls his eyes.
The flame's on and the fish fries. Not that different to the fish and chips from the shop around the corner when John came home from an evening performance back in the nineties and they went out for the night. Only that now they lounge on the sofa watching bad television - also some John isn't in - and letting out the dogs.
"Successssss," John pumps the air and twirls with the flame, halo-ing himself and nearly the kitchen, and maybe the fire's all the more likely.
Scott cocks an eyebrow, John cocks an eyebrow back, then Scott remembers some plans he has to put together for the next day and saunters off. The "Hey!" of near-insult at being left to stand in the light on his own trails after him. He wriggles his arse, then facepalms. Only for John.
John pads into the study to find him rolling up some documents for the messenger tube. "Did you see that? That was awesome."
Scott laughs, but it's a small thing, something he uses to make his point every day. John is his private gag reel, sometimes in more ways than one. "It was. Even better that I'm not currently dialing 999."
John sits on the edge of the desk and kicks his heels. He does this a lot now, comes to rest on things when in the past he might have preferred to hover, to flit, to dance on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter. "You were so sure I'd set myself on fire."
Scott doesn't look up. "Well, something. Possibly yourself. Possibly me. Possibly the ceiling." They just painted that last year.
John watches him screw the cap on the messenger tube, his hand turning the lighter, end to end, over and over again, occasionally he palms it in his hand and flicks it. The flame is sideways and pitiful, a low glow. Even a small flame can make a huge fire.
"I would never set you on fire," John says softly, not because this means something important to him, but because he's distracted by the hiss of the gas coming from the lighter. Scott sets the tube aside and perches on the desk next to him, and it groans under their combined weight. He wiggles experimentally. They've never tried out the desk, but there's a first time for everything, actually, and if it doesn't work out, John can take a bloody picture and slap it in his third book.
"But?" Scott prompts, because if John is here watching him pack up his work --
"The uh. Food is not...food," John admits.
"It's charcoal, isn't it."
"Apparently you're not supposed to do a victory dance while it's still burning."
"Uh-huh," Scott agrees.
"So...." John says.
"I wasn't that hungry," Scott admits. He rests his hand on John's thigh, natural after fifteen years, but he feels the muscle tense under his fingers.
John laughs.
"What?" Scott asks, annoyed.
"That turned you on," John says.
"What complete nonsense."
"It did. You love a manly man," John teases. "A maaaanly man who plays with fire," and he waves the unlit lighter under Scott's nose.
"Shut up." But Scott kisses the lighter anyway, warm from John's fingers and hot further up top. Maybe a bit too hot, too daring and he doesn't want to get that close to a potential flame. Then he pulls away and slips the lighter from John's fingers to weigh it in his hand. He hums a tune from the radio low in his throat, this house is on fire and smacks John when he chuckles. He can contain himself most of the time.
Their legs touch, dangling off the desk, and he slips his hand up higher on John's thigh, brushes his knuckles over John's crotch. John who could have anyone (female and over forty, he grins) and sits on his desk instead and has for-
Not like him to get whimsical.
"I can do the manly dance for you," John picks up the theme after brushing his lips over Scott's hair.
"In. your. pants, " Scott draws out. "Very manly, just how I like it."
John grabs Scott's fingers and spreads them over his crotch, pushing into it.
"The dogs want the charcoal," Scott offers, keeping his fingers limp, referring to the yapping in the kitchen.
"This stud wants you."
Scott smiles because it shuts John up the easiest, then he kisses him because that is even easier and he likes how in private John can actually kiss him without looking for the cameras or positioning their bodies in just the right angle.
John thrusts a little into his hand, then, sliding off the desk, still attached to Scott's mouth like a hungry thing. He doesn't care when he pushes the papers about on the desk with his descent, and he doesn't care when he turns his chest to Scott's and wedges himself in between Scott's knees. He just cares about what he wants, and it is gratifying to be the thing that is wanted, the thing that goes up in flames with the snap-hiss of a lighter, maybe.
He rubs his hand against John's denims, feeling the line of his cock, and letting John jam his fingers into his trousers, and they are going to do it. Scott should know as soon as he thinks these things they happen. They're going to break the desk and John is going to laugh and wave his hands, dick out and happy in the air, saying something like, 'I'm so funny!' Scott unfastens John's button and flies, fastens his hands on John's cock just as John manages to squeeze his hand into Scott's trousers without undoing anything, because that's the way, really.
He's ready to fall off the desk, just slide right to his knees and take John's cock in his mouth. It's out and hard and just there, and when it's there he can't not do it. It's partly about desire, partly about being together so long, whoever's cock is out first gets the blowjob. Sometimes it's him, sometimes it's John, sometimes they race to do it. Now it's more of an organic thing, really. He can't remember the last time he felt put out for "losing". Besides, if he didn't love John's cock as much as the rest of him, he probably wouldn't be here.
Probably.
Before he can move very much, his arse slides an inch or two towards the edge of the desk, John is pulling at his trousers, fiddling with the button and the zip and sliding down Scott's shirt with his mouth. He's laughing, and that's always been a great sound. John barks laughter like the dogs, like one of those old jokes about how dogs resemble their owners. And between them both, really, John wins in that category, gregarious and friendly and communal, all but dragging Scott along with him. Where Scott plods, John trots.
"You owe me later," he says as he pulls Scott's shirt up a little and licks the skin that he finds, not picky about what it is, really. They could do the math (Scott could do the math), or make a chart and map exactly how many times his tongue has crossed that part of Scott's body, and square inch, over 15 years, right? How many time Scott's fingers have touched any given inch of John's.
Fucking romantic. He knows he's distracted when John lifts his head up and snaps the lighter again, making a feeble spark, his grin wide and shit eating over Scott's cock as it lies there, trapped in the waistband of his shorts. John sticks his tongue all the way out of his mouth and just touches the tip of it to the tip of Scott's cock, a little flutter on his foreskin, his eyes rolled up and sparking, just one side of his mouth twisted in a wry grin, a bad boy grin.
Scott lifts his hips because he can't help himself, actually, not because he wants John to fall backwards a little, which he does, whoops, and John punches his thigh on the side, gives him a little bit of a punitive chopper with the ball of his fist.
Scott laughs. "You're not usually this scrappy so early," he says lightly. They're going to fall into a little tease; he likes this game, the one where he uses his mouth to talk, and John answers with his tongue and teeth. He leans backwards on his hands and props himself up, John twists his trousers down with both hands, then his shorts so that at least he can get his dick out, Scott thinks. John is impatient, really, with himself for the most part and he likes to come the same time as Scott, something they share -one orgasm, two bodies, right, yeah-and so Scott can't see but knows that he's fisting himself when he pulls Scott's foreskin up, so that he can nip at it for a second, snuffling little amused laughs at Scott's surprised moans. John pulls the foreskin as far forward as it will go, then runs his hand so that the edge of his fist is flush with it, and fucks the foreskin and his palm with his tongue, for ten seconds, five seconds, seventy-six seconds, Scott can't tell when he grabs the edge of the desk and wants to watch so desperately.
"Haaaa," John murmurs, pulsing his fist down over Scott's cock and following it with his whole mouth, that big brash bossy mouth that never seems to shut the hell up except when-oh, Scott thinks, it's pointless to even pretend that he's not in love, even in his own head, even if he's thinking it when his dick is getting sucked, which, the more analytical part of him admits, is not a good time to be analysing anything.
John's head bobs and he grunts in a tempo, his shoulders following behind the rhythm down his chest to his own cock, like he's doing some sort of body wave, probably. John fucks with his whole body, even now, especially now, now when he can stop to think about it, when he's not drunk or tired or mad or romantic. His tongue on the underside of Scott's cock, his molars scraping Scott's foreskin a little, they tell him that John is picturing it in his head as he does it, that he's trying the motions on himself with his hand, like when he dances a routine in order to teach it to someone else. He's giving the thinking man's blowjob.
The smoke alarm goes off.
John pulls off with a reluctant pop and laughs, dotting a spit sloppy trail down Scott's cock; he wants to tell John to just keep going, to ignore it, but they both think about explaining why they had let the kitchen catch on fire when they had both been in the house and what the Daily Mail will say about it, and how Carole will call their new kitchen (because the whole thing would have to be redone) something clever like 'flammus coitus interruptus' or 'the most expensive blow job ever'.
John tries one more time, swirling his tongue on the head of Scott's cock and breathing through his nose, so that the exhale tickles the wet and sensitive skin there. Scott is trying to get back into it, but the high pitched wail is distracting, not that the dogs are yowling along to the alarm.
"Wow, talk about delay. By the time that thing goes off, we'll be burnt to a crisp in our beds." John pulls his hand from Scott's trousers and steps back, his cock out and pointing at the door. Scott rolls his eyes when John just leaves the room, presumably to check on the possible house fire that he is solely responsible for.
"They sound like the back up singers on your last album," Scott murmurs as he follows John out onto the smoky kitchen.
"Oh snap," John calls over his shoulder. "Catty bitch." Pause. "I should put the dogs on the next album."
Scott rounds the corner behind him and rolls his eyes. Here we go.
"Think about it," John goes on, "people would love it."
"You'd drag CJ to sign with his paw," Scott continues the thought, reaches down to adjust himself in his trousers. "You'd get him his own book, or a blog, maybe get Clare to write it, pay it forward-"
"Yes!" John twirls, finger pointed, dick pointed and waving, and something is rattling in his head quite obviously Scott doesn't want to know. Really, doesn't. "But maybe Clare is... hmm." John thinks. Yes, it's that obvious.
Scott crosses his arms in front of his chest, smiles. He always smiles in crucial moments like premieres and looking good next to someone whose name they'll print under pictures. "Smoke. Kitchen." He doesn't really smile much then.
It turns out to be a lot ado about nothing, like exposed balls on the radio and the week from hell after of John not wanting to move off the sofa and face anyone. He'd made him draw the blinds. Curtain down, now that's a first. Scott angles up for the smoke alarm and finds the off-button. The beeping ceases.
"That-" Scott starts looking at the fish, "that's almost fossilized. Maybe the National Museum has-"
John pinches it between index finger and thumb and waves it in front of Scott's face, bump against the nose. CJ jumps up between them, teeth clacking.
"He'll catch onto your dick," Scott says with a smile and some satisfaction at the speed with which the charcoal lands in the rubbish.
John's dick softens, so much for that moment. The candles are still burning on the set table for the romantic evening in daily-mail celebrity style before the quick idea of extra crispy with the tartar sauce. Scott reaches for John's dick as John's scrubbing the work surface of sprayed or billowed smoke, rubbing it slowly.
He knows John sometimes worries that it doesn't slap against his stomach anymore even fully hard. Forty + five planned out, another 25, at least they both still get it up.
And there's Viagra.
John's hidden it in the heart-shaped box he got from Clare when she was 7. And he saw nothing creepy about that. Because it sparkles.
Author: amand_r, copperbadge, & cruentum
Fandom: RPS, JB/SG
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3,000 ish
Author's Notes: Clearly we are bad influences on each other. Beta loving from 51stcenturyfox and her whippy beta sparkle-juice-thing. It tastes like nanaimo bars. snaxcident betaed the beta, Jesus! gypsylady and spiderine helped with the title (though this is not what they picked). thaddeusfavour and paragraphs waved the sparkly pom-poms.
Summary: Being married to John Barrowman is a little bit like holding onto the tail of a comet.
Also, please see the beautiful book cover that laurab1 did for us, entitled, The Amazing Adventures of Captain Jack, by Clare Barrowman-Casey , and yeah, we mean CJ the dog.
Being married to John Barrowman is a little bit like holding onto the tail of a comet. Not that he's not used to it; it's been what, fifteen years now, and he still thinks of John as the gorgeous naked I'd hit it onstage at that little theatre in the West End. Just...busier, now.
It's not that Scott doesn't want anything he has; he adores John, loud and clumsy and a complete fashion victim, though he knows his smiles look a little long-suffering sometimes. Still, it's worth it, and not just when John does idiot romantic things like declare in a book, a published book strangers will read, that he can't live without him.
Like right now, actually, when John is trying to show him how to actually flambé something, even though he has never in his life set anything meant to be eaten on fire. Scott stands back and leans against the counter. John is applying the whiskey and waving his hands and talking in fast forward about how Carole had told him something completely unrelated but the conversation will wend its way right back to the matter at hand eventually, the matter being that Scott has deftly palmed the lighter John thinks he needs to make their poached halibut in red wine go up like a bloody Roman Candle.
These are the things he can't live without actually, John's excitement, his talking, the hand waving, the fact that he's making this for Scott even though a) it's never going to work and b) Scott will never eat it, even if it does. John's bare feet on the tile. The fact that John writes about him in the book in such a horrible way. Cameras in the taxis, those awful kisses in front of the cameras. The flashbulb in his face, that is secondary.
"So then when you--" John looks down and sees that the lighter is gone, and Scott smirks. The comet rounds the sun and comes right by for a return pass. "You took it. Give it."
Scott saunters from the room. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Sometimes some clever fucker at a mag will try to make it out like Scott's a telly character, Ianto to John's Jack, because really: John is Jack. Nobody's denying that. But Scott's not desperate, and he's not sad, and he's not a kid, and most importantly he's nobody's butler (Plus: better hair than Gareth David-Lloyd will ever have, thank you very much.).
He doesn't look after John. Not like that. He just, you know...is married to the guy. So he would be the prime suspect in any suspicious homicide. And he has faced the truth that if John goes before his time it's going to be suspicious -- setting himself on fire, falling from a great height, some kind of unlikely onstage accident involving high heels and a dare.
"Seriously, give me the lighter," John yells, and then, "NEVERMIND! I'll just light some paper towel on the gas range," which is when Scott zips the lighter straight at his head.
John, who can fall over just walking in a straight line, catches it without even looking up.
God. Three seconds of competence and Scott falls for him all over again. Depressing.
He watches him from the kitchen doorway, tries not to feel like a bird looking into some family's life for Easter, or Christmas. Something's going to get roasted. John invites them to their house, And here's the bedroom, and here's where I take a piss, and he's the one who worries if anyone's going to come by and knock on their windows sometime. John doesn't think in calculations, he thinks in sparkle. Scott thinks in fangirl grimaces pressed to the glass.
"You're gonna turn it black," he says and can't quite bear to watch, but can't look away how tongue out, eyebrows drawn John inhales then exhales with the flame. Nearly drops the thing. Scott rolls his eyes.
The flame's on and the fish fries. Not that different to the fish and chips from the shop around the corner when John came home from an evening performance back in the nineties and they went out for the night. Only that now they lounge on the sofa watching bad television - also some John isn't in - and letting out the dogs.
"Successssss," John pumps the air and twirls with the flame, halo-ing himself and nearly the kitchen, and maybe the fire's all the more likely.
Scott cocks an eyebrow, John cocks an eyebrow back, then Scott remembers some plans he has to put together for the next day and saunters off. The "Hey!" of near-insult at being left to stand in the light on his own trails after him. He wriggles his arse, then facepalms. Only for John.
John pads into the study to find him rolling up some documents for the messenger tube. "Did you see that? That was awesome."
Scott laughs, but it's a small thing, something he uses to make his point every day. John is his private gag reel, sometimes in more ways than one. "It was. Even better that I'm not currently dialing 999."
John sits on the edge of the desk and kicks his heels. He does this a lot now, comes to rest on things when in the past he might have preferred to hover, to flit, to dance on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter. "You were so sure I'd set myself on fire."
Scott doesn't look up. "Well, something. Possibly yourself. Possibly me. Possibly the ceiling." They just painted that last year.
John watches him screw the cap on the messenger tube, his hand turning the lighter, end to end, over and over again, occasionally he palms it in his hand and flicks it. The flame is sideways and pitiful, a low glow. Even a small flame can make a huge fire.
"I would never set you on fire," John says softly, not because this means something important to him, but because he's distracted by the hiss of the gas coming from the lighter. Scott sets the tube aside and perches on the desk next to him, and it groans under their combined weight. He wiggles experimentally. They've never tried out the desk, but there's a first time for everything, actually, and if it doesn't work out, John can take a bloody picture and slap it in his third book.
"But?" Scott prompts, because if John is here watching him pack up his work --
"The uh. Food is not...food," John admits.
"It's charcoal, isn't it."
"Apparently you're not supposed to do a victory dance while it's still burning."
"Uh-huh," Scott agrees.
"So...." John says.
"I wasn't that hungry," Scott admits. He rests his hand on John's thigh, natural after fifteen years, but he feels the muscle tense under his fingers.
John laughs.
"What?" Scott asks, annoyed.
"That turned you on," John says.
"What complete nonsense."
"It did. You love a manly man," John teases. "A maaaanly man who plays with fire," and he waves the unlit lighter under Scott's nose.
"Shut up." But Scott kisses the lighter anyway, warm from John's fingers and hot further up top. Maybe a bit too hot, too daring and he doesn't want to get that close to a potential flame. Then he pulls away and slips the lighter from John's fingers to weigh it in his hand. He hums a tune from the radio low in his throat, this house is on fire and smacks John when he chuckles. He can contain himself most of the time.
Their legs touch, dangling off the desk, and he slips his hand up higher on John's thigh, brushes his knuckles over John's crotch. John who could have anyone (female and over forty, he grins) and sits on his desk instead and has for-
Not like him to get whimsical.
"I can do the manly dance for you," John picks up the theme after brushing his lips over Scott's hair.
"In. your. pants, " Scott draws out. "Very manly, just how I like it."
John grabs Scott's fingers and spreads them over his crotch, pushing into it.
"The dogs want the charcoal," Scott offers, keeping his fingers limp, referring to the yapping in the kitchen.
"This stud wants you."
Scott smiles because it shuts John up the easiest, then he kisses him because that is even easier and he likes how in private John can actually kiss him without looking for the cameras or positioning their bodies in just the right angle.
John thrusts a little into his hand, then, sliding off the desk, still attached to Scott's mouth like a hungry thing. He doesn't care when he pushes the papers about on the desk with his descent, and he doesn't care when he turns his chest to Scott's and wedges himself in between Scott's knees. He just cares about what he wants, and it is gratifying to be the thing that is wanted, the thing that goes up in flames with the snap-hiss of a lighter, maybe.
He rubs his hand against John's denims, feeling the line of his cock, and letting John jam his fingers into his trousers, and they are going to do it. Scott should know as soon as he thinks these things they happen. They're going to break the desk and John is going to laugh and wave his hands, dick out and happy in the air, saying something like, 'I'm so funny!' Scott unfastens John's button and flies, fastens his hands on John's cock just as John manages to squeeze his hand into Scott's trousers without undoing anything, because that's the way, really.
He's ready to fall off the desk, just slide right to his knees and take John's cock in his mouth. It's out and hard and just there, and when it's there he can't not do it. It's partly about desire, partly about being together so long, whoever's cock is out first gets the blowjob. Sometimes it's him, sometimes it's John, sometimes they race to do it. Now it's more of an organic thing, really. He can't remember the last time he felt put out for "losing". Besides, if he didn't love John's cock as much as the rest of him, he probably wouldn't be here.
Probably.
Before he can move very much, his arse slides an inch or two towards the edge of the desk, John is pulling at his trousers, fiddling with the button and the zip and sliding down Scott's shirt with his mouth. He's laughing, and that's always been a great sound. John barks laughter like the dogs, like one of those old jokes about how dogs resemble their owners. And between them both, really, John wins in that category, gregarious and friendly and communal, all but dragging Scott along with him. Where Scott plods, John trots.
"You owe me later," he says as he pulls Scott's shirt up a little and licks the skin that he finds, not picky about what it is, really. They could do the math (Scott could do the math), or make a chart and map exactly how many times his tongue has crossed that part of Scott's body, and square inch, over 15 years, right? How many time Scott's fingers have touched any given inch of John's.
Fucking romantic. He knows he's distracted when John lifts his head up and snaps the lighter again, making a feeble spark, his grin wide and shit eating over Scott's cock as it lies there, trapped in the waistband of his shorts. John sticks his tongue all the way out of his mouth and just touches the tip of it to the tip of Scott's cock, a little flutter on his foreskin, his eyes rolled up and sparking, just one side of his mouth twisted in a wry grin, a bad boy grin.
Scott lifts his hips because he can't help himself, actually, not because he wants John to fall backwards a little, which he does, whoops, and John punches his thigh on the side, gives him a little bit of a punitive chopper with the ball of his fist.
Scott laughs. "You're not usually this scrappy so early," he says lightly. They're going to fall into a little tease; he likes this game, the one where he uses his mouth to talk, and John answers with his tongue and teeth. He leans backwards on his hands and props himself up, John twists his trousers down with both hands, then his shorts so that at least he can get his dick out, Scott thinks. John is impatient, really, with himself for the most part and he likes to come the same time as Scott, something they share -one orgasm, two bodies, right, yeah-and so Scott can't see but knows that he's fisting himself when he pulls Scott's foreskin up, so that he can nip at it for a second, snuffling little amused laughs at Scott's surprised moans. John pulls the foreskin as far forward as it will go, then runs his hand so that the edge of his fist is flush with it, and fucks the foreskin and his palm with his tongue, for ten seconds, five seconds, seventy-six seconds, Scott can't tell when he grabs the edge of the desk and wants to watch so desperately.
"Haaaa," John murmurs, pulsing his fist down over Scott's cock and following it with his whole mouth, that big brash bossy mouth that never seems to shut the hell up except when-oh, Scott thinks, it's pointless to even pretend that he's not in love, even in his own head, even if he's thinking it when his dick is getting sucked, which, the more analytical part of him admits, is not a good time to be analysing anything.
John's head bobs and he grunts in a tempo, his shoulders following behind the rhythm down his chest to his own cock, like he's doing some sort of body wave, probably. John fucks with his whole body, even now, especially now, now when he can stop to think about it, when he's not drunk or tired or mad or romantic. His tongue on the underside of Scott's cock, his molars scraping Scott's foreskin a little, they tell him that John is picturing it in his head as he does it, that he's trying the motions on himself with his hand, like when he dances a routine in order to teach it to someone else. He's giving the thinking man's blowjob.
The smoke alarm goes off.
John pulls off with a reluctant pop and laughs, dotting a spit sloppy trail down Scott's cock; he wants to tell John to just keep going, to ignore it, but they both think about explaining why they had let the kitchen catch on fire when they had both been in the house and what the Daily Mail will say about it, and how Carole will call their new kitchen (because the whole thing would have to be redone) something clever like 'flammus coitus interruptus' or 'the most expensive blow job ever'.
John tries one more time, swirling his tongue on the head of Scott's cock and breathing through his nose, so that the exhale tickles the wet and sensitive skin there. Scott is trying to get back into it, but the high pitched wail is distracting, not that the dogs are yowling along to the alarm.
"Wow, talk about delay. By the time that thing goes off, we'll be burnt to a crisp in our beds." John pulls his hand from Scott's trousers and steps back, his cock out and pointing at the door. Scott rolls his eyes when John just leaves the room, presumably to check on the possible house fire that he is solely responsible for.
"They sound like the back up singers on your last album," Scott murmurs as he follows John out onto the smoky kitchen.
"Oh snap," John calls over his shoulder. "Catty bitch." Pause. "I should put the dogs on the next album."
Scott rounds the corner behind him and rolls his eyes. Here we go.
"Think about it," John goes on, "people would love it."
"You'd drag CJ to sign with his paw," Scott continues the thought, reaches down to adjust himself in his trousers. "You'd get him his own book, or a blog, maybe get Clare to write it, pay it forward-"
"Yes!" John twirls, finger pointed, dick pointed and waving, and something is rattling in his head quite obviously Scott doesn't want to know. Really, doesn't. "But maybe Clare is... hmm." John thinks. Yes, it's that obvious.
Scott crosses his arms in front of his chest, smiles. He always smiles in crucial moments like premieres and looking good next to someone whose name they'll print under pictures. "Smoke. Kitchen." He doesn't really smile much then.
It turns out to be a lot ado about nothing, like exposed balls on the radio and the week from hell after of John not wanting to move off the sofa and face anyone. He'd made him draw the blinds. Curtain down, now that's a first. Scott angles up for the smoke alarm and finds the off-button. The beeping ceases.
"That-" Scott starts looking at the fish, "that's almost fossilized. Maybe the National Museum has-"
John pinches it between index finger and thumb and waves it in front of Scott's face, bump against the nose. CJ jumps up between them, teeth clacking.
"He'll catch onto your dick," Scott says with a smile and some satisfaction at the speed with which the charcoal lands in the rubbish.
John's dick softens, so much for that moment. The candles are still burning on the set table for the romantic evening in daily-mail celebrity style before the quick idea of extra crispy with the tartar sauce. Scott reaches for John's dick as John's scrubbing the work surface of sprayed or billowed smoke, rubbing it slowly.
He knows John sometimes worries that it doesn't slap against his stomach anymore even fully hard. Forty + five planned out, another 25, at least they both still get it up.
And there's Viagra.
John's hidden it in the heart-shaped box he got from Clare when she was 7. And he saw nothing creepy about that. Because it sparkles.