RPF: "Ro-mahn-tique"
Dec. 10th, 2009 08:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyusTitle: Ro-mahn-tique
Pairing: TW RPS, JB/SG
Rating: PG
Length: 1100 words
Disclaimer: The events in this story are fiction, as much as the interpretation of the real people as shown in the story is a fictionalization of them and their lives. It should not be inferred that this is an attempt to represent reality.
Summary: Celebrating anniversaries; those days tend to be perfect, no, really, better than perfect.
Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amand_r for the beta.
The glass screen door crashed into the lock and jumped open again from the force of impact after John's made his way through and disappeared behind the reflection of lights in the glass.
"Go on, wreck the house," Scott called to his mirror self in the glass, stared at it blurring as the door slid back to rest in the half-open position. "Bloody hell." He looked at the bottle in his hand, at the mud on his shoes and at Harris playing contrite Daddy's boy at his feet now after he'd been all too happy to piss in the corner earlier to set the final point to the evening. A healthy swig of the beer, but it tasted about as cheap as it was and he couldn't quite remember why they'd bought it. For some party or another, for people who drank beer, for Gareth, yeah, that one.
He shifted, shoes squelching with water, stretched.
His stomach rumbled for food. Still.
Torn between making this a scene and pissing off to bed to be done with the day, he pulled his coat from where he'd thrown it on the table hours earlier in wild panic at the water everywhere, and his shoes only added to the tracked mud. He didn't care. Much. He'd care again in the morning. Coat on, reasonably warm and only freezing mildly in wet shoes, he stepped outside. The dogs were happily barking while John was happily sulking on the deck, sitting on one of the plastic-covered chairs.
"Happy Fucking Anniversary to you, too," Scott muttered and lifted the beer in toast to the Welsh coast and John in particular, who was doing his best willful-fisherman-on-shore impression.
John stared over, face set. "Your suit cost 900 quid."
"I'll pay you in blowjobs," Scott replied, smiling broadly in mocking sweet.
John snorted and tipped the bottle up to drink, pulling a face before the beer could have even touched his lips. He swallowed the alcohol down, then gestured with the bottle, doing the expansive hand and feet storytelling without the entertainment smiles. Scott pretended rapt attention in clothes that were worse for wear, but John's had seen better days, too. John opened his mouth, ready for a tirade to doom the world, but he stopped before anything could spill and cocked his head, "How much is a blowjob of yours worth?"
Scott choked on the beer that was making its way down his throat. "You don't have enough money to pay me, Barrowman." He sorted out liquids and air and breathed cleanly again.
John pulled a face at the sea in the dark. "I'm hungry."
Scott played fingers over the condensation on the bottle. "Eat an apple. There are three."
"I had planned for us to be fucking our way through the roof by now." John thumped his bottle to the deck. "It was PERFECT!" The exclamation marks and all-caps bounced off the garden.
Scott shivered. A nice dinner and good sex had turned into hours in a car and a broken pipe flooding the kitchen, scared dogs and John throwing his entertainment weight around when, tired, hungry and pissed off, no-one could make the mess undone with a bit of a telly trick and a surprise, bunny-out-of-the-hat show. Scott smirked. "It's not the chicken, it's the thought behind the chi-"
"Don't!" Outstretched finger pointing, then wavering with laughter. Scott raised his eyebrows. The finger wavered more. "You haven't even seen it that often."
"And I kept staring at, the, what's his name, one of the boys, yeah." He gave John a faraway dreamy look. It's an old argument, and he had and he would again, who wouldn't. He hid his smile behind cheap alcohol as John flustered in exasperation, more mock now than actual exasperation, surely.
"I was trying to be romantic," John said, earnest pleading.
Scott rolled his eyes. "Congratulations, it failed."
John laughed, beer slipping from his lips. "No fucking kidding. This is why anniversaries don't-" he paused. "You know I love you." It carried across the garden to Scott, standing in the door in the tattered suit and hands probably still stinking of piss from when he'd cleaned up Harris' little mishap amidst water everywhere.
"That's in three weeks."
"I don't get to say I love you for the first time we fucked?"
"Cry me a river," Scott replied, voice dry.
"But I love you!" Now he was playacting, the bottle for a prop, and the wet grass for the scenery backdrop as he crawled across their garden. The dogs thought of it as the best new game and jumped around him, as he was ruining one of the more expensive suits.
"No rose in your mouth," Scott pointed out, leaning against the glass window with a wry smile.
John grinned, then bent down and came up again with a mouthful of grass. Scott laughed, surprised , embarrassed, facepalming certainly as the flood lights came on when John was close enough to the house, bathing them both in spotlight of a too long day, and not enough alcohol and this.
"Ha-" John said around the grass, single leaves falling from his lips. He reached up and plucked them out, steadied himself on Scott's knee with the other hand. He offered the grass to Scott, absently, "I should have bought some pot for-" Scott raised an eyebrow, John grinned, "Happy First Fuck And I'd Do It Again Anniversary."
"You're such an idiot," Scott said. Fondly, always. And beer and grass and dirty suits, he leaned down to John kneeling up and kissed him through all that. "I'm taking you out for dinner tomorrow," he said against John's lips.
John shook his head. "Meeting."
A laugh as Scott tipped the bottle and drank more, thought of eating one of the three apples they'd found in the fridge. "Of course you have a meeting. I'll call Rhys to check when you're free." He brushed his thumb over John's eyelids as if spreading make-up to pretty him up amidst the wreckage. Not that he needed it.
"Free now." John blinked up at him, rubbed his face on Scott's thigh.
"We're not doing it in the garden."
John stifled the laugh and got to his feet, and the kiss he gave Scott came without the dramatics of stage acting, despite the lights, despite their get up. He pressed it to the corner of Scott's lips, his cheek, hand on Scott's chest. "Get inside," he said close to the skin, and his hand slid over Scott's hip to his arse.
They clanked beer bottles for cheers and left them empty on the doorstep. The house still looked a mess, and when John stripped to t-shirt and briefs to clean up, Scott figured that celebrating had to wait until their house looked like it belonged to them again.
"Sorry I forgot flowers," John said suddenly, broom in hand, tragic expression on his face. Some grass was still stuck to the side of his cheek.
Scott laughed. "Honestly, when did you ever get me flowers?" He slapped John's arse for good measure and another kiss, then they shared one of the apples.
Good times, always.
--
A brief note:
In short, I decided to integrate my RPF/S into this account instead of continuing to use a sockpuppet (dinoegg; love the name though) because it became slightly bothersome. If you want to read past RPF, you can find it linked in this list. Significant others are and will be featured more or less prominently in the stories.
Now, if you're not into RPF, and I know a lot of people aren't, just skip the entries:
1. I'll be using this icon to go with all past and future RPF.
2. It says RPF in the subject line of the entries.
3. The tags are separate from the tags for the rest of it, so it should be easy to avoid accidental clicking on links you never meant to visit
Pairing: TW RPS, JB/SG
Rating: PG
Length: 1100 words
Disclaimer: The events in this story are fiction, as much as the interpretation of the real people as shown in the story is a fictionalization of them and their lives. It should not be inferred that this is an attempt to represent reality.
Summary: Celebrating anniversaries; those days tend to be perfect, no, really, better than perfect.
Notes: Thanks to
amand_r for the beta.The glass screen door crashed into the lock and jumped open again from the force of impact after John's made his way through and disappeared behind the reflection of lights in the glass.
"Go on, wreck the house," Scott called to his mirror self in the glass, stared at it blurring as the door slid back to rest in the half-open position. "Bloody hell." He looked at the bottle in his hand, at the mud on his shoes and at Harris playing contrite Daddy's boy at his feet now after he'd been all too happy to piss in the corner earlier to set the final point to the evening. A healthy swig of the beer, but it tasted about as cheap as it was and he couldn't quite remember why they'd bought it. For some party or another, for people who drank beer, for Gareth, yeah, that one.
He shifted, shoes squelching with water, stretched.
His stomach rumbled for food. Still.
Torn between making this a scene and pissing off to bed to be done with the day, he pulled his coat from where he'd thrown it on the table hours earlier in wild panic at the water everywhere, and his shoes only added to the tracked mud. He didn't care. Much. He'd care again in the morning. Coat on, reasonably warm and only freezing mildly in wet shoes, he stepped outside. The dogs were happily barking while John was happily sulking on the deck, sitting on one of the plastic-covered chairs.
"Happy Fucking Anniversary to you, too," Scott muttered and lifted the beer in toast to the Welsh coast and John in particular, who was doing his best willful-fisherman-on-shore impression.
John stared over, face set. "Your suit cost 900 quid."
"I'll pay you in blowjobs," Scott replied, smiling broadly in mocking sweet.
John snorted and tipped the bottle up to drink, pulling a face before the beer could have even touched his lips. He swallowed the alcohol down, then gestured with the bottle, doing the expansive hand and feet storytelling without the entertainment smiles. Scott pretended rapt attention in clothes that were worse for wear, but John's had seen better days, too. John opened his mouth, ready for a tirade to doom the world, but he stopped before anything could spill and cocked his head, "How much is a blowjob of yours worth?"
Scott choked on the beer that was making its way down his throat. "You don't have enough money to pay me, Barrowman." He sorted out liquids and air and breathed cleanly again.
John pulled a face at the sea in the dark. "I'm hungry."
Scott played fingers over the condensation on the bottle. "Eat an apple. There are three."
"I had planned for us to be fucking our way through the roof by now." John thumped his bottle to the deck. "It was PERFECT!" The exclamation marks and all-caps bounced off the garden.
Scott shivered. A nice dinner and good sex had turned into hours in a car and a broken pipe flooding the kitchen, scared dogs and John throwing his entertainment weight around when, tired, hungry and pissed off, no-one could make the mess undone with a bit of a telly trick and a surprise, bunny-out-of-the-hat show. Scott smirked. "It's not the chicken, it's the thought behind the chi-"
"Don't!" Outstretched finger pointing, then wavering with laughter. Scott raised his eyebrows. The finger wavered more. "You haven't even seen it that often."
"And I kept staring at, the, what's his name, one of the boys, yeah." He gave John a faraway dreamy look. It's an old argument, and he had and he would again, who wouldn't. He hid his smile behind cheap alcohol as John flustered in exasperation, more mock now than actual exasperation, surely.
"I was trying to be romantic," John said, earnest pleading.
Scott rolled his eyes. "Congratulations, it failed."
John laughed, beer slipping from his lips. "No fucking kidding. This is why anniversaries don't-" he paused. "You know I love you." It carried across the garden to Scott, standing in the door in the tattered suit and hands probably still stinking of piss from when he'd cleaned up Harris' little mishap amidst water everywhere.
"That's in three weeks."
"I don't get to say I love you for the first time we fucked?"
"Cry me a river," Scott replied, voice dry.
"But I love you!" Now he was playacting, the bottle for a prop, and the wet grass for the scenery backdrop as he crawled across their garden. The dogs thought of it as the best new game and jumped around him, as he was ruining one of the more expensive suits.
"No rose in your mouth," Scott pointed out, leaning against the glass window with a wry smile.
John grinned, then bent down and came up again with a mouthful of grass. Scott laughed, surprised , embarrassed, facepalming certainly as the flood lights came on when John was close enough to the house, bathing them both in spotlight of a too long day, and not enough alcohol and this.
"Ha-" John said around the grass, single leaves falling from his lips. He reached up and plucked them out, steadied himself on Scott's knee with the other hand. He offered the grass to Scott, absently, "I should have bought some pot for-" Scott raised an eyebrow, John grinned, "Happy First Fuck And I'd Do It Again Anniversary."
"You're such an idiot," Scott said. Fondly, always. And beer and grass and dirty suits, he leaned down to John kneeling up and kissed him through all that. "I'm taking you out for dinner tomorrow," he said against John's lips.
John shook his head. "Meeting."
A laugh as Scott tipped the bottle and drank more, thought of eating one of the three apples they'd found in the fridge. "Of course you have a meeting. I'll call Rhys to check when you're free." He brushed his thumb over John's eyelids as if spreading make-up to pretty him up amidst the wreckage. Not that he needed it.
"Free now." John blinked up at him, rubbed his face on Scott's thigh.
"We're not doing it in the garden."
John stifled the laugh and got to his feet, and the kiss he gave Scott came without the dramatics of stage acting, despite the lights, despite their get up. He pressed it to the corner of Scott's lips, his cheek, hand on Scott's chest. "Get inside," he said close to the skin, and his hand slid over Scott's hip to his arse.
They clanked beer bottles for cheers and left them empty on the doorstep. The house still looked a mess, and when John stripped to t-shirt and briefs to clean up, Scott figured that celebrating had to wait until their house looked like it belonged to them again.
"Sorry I forgot flowers," John said suddenly, broom in hand, tragic expression on his face. Some grass was still stuck to the side of his cheek.
Scott laughed. "Honestly, when did you ever get me flowers?" He slapped John's arse for good measure and another kiss, then they shared one of the apples.
Good times, always.
--
A brief note:
In short, I decided to integrate my RPF/S into this account instead of continuing to use a sockpuppet (
dinoegg; love the name though) because it became slightly bothersome. If you want to read past RPF, you can find it linked in this list. Significant others are and will be featured more or less prominently in the stories.Now, if you're not into RPF, and I know a lot of people aren't, just skip the entries:
1. I'll be using this icon to go with all past and future RPF.
2. It says RPF in the subject line of the entries.
3. The tags are separate from the tags for the rest of it, so it should be easy to avoid accidental clicking on links you never meant to visit
