RPF: "Casual"
Apr. 6th, 2010 12:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyusTitle: Casual
Pairing: TW RPF, JB/GDL
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3600 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: It's hardly love when they both have someone at home for that, but it's something that's started in the days of Torchwood and continues on, with the texts and the meetings somewhere, sometimes.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
touchyerwood originally, reposted now.
John texts a palm tree.
Arse.
Gareth texts back a picture of an old warehouse somewhere in the Welsh countryside where cameras are set up to film. They're on a break thanks to the drizzle that ate electricity somewhere.
Barrowman comes back with a LOL and a smiley face that is entirely too smug. Gareth shifts on his chair. It creaks, threatens to break. Creak, like that. Should've auctioned one more signed action figure or a book he never read for a better chair. He's trying to sneak a shot of Gemma eating a banana for the laughs and John's benefit but she gives him the v and he texts his crotch to Barrowman instead. Give him something to think about amidst silicon tits and botox arses.
Barrowman pulls his blowjob face in the next photo back, mouth begging to be fucked. Gareth texts back a picture of himself blowing a kiss to his camera phone.
Pause, then, nerd glasses? as a text back.
Gareth flips John off mentally and drops his phone on the rickety table next to him. Something falls off it, someone will pick it up again. He leans back in his chair (creak), and waits. He should go find a snack somewhere.
*
It's not warm enough here...
Gareth expects a shriveled dick picture to come with it, but it's only John's faux pout. They've wrapped and he's back to the grind with the band while Barrowman's still partying it high style in Los Angeles.
Whine moar, wanker, Gareth thinks to the phone and texts back a picture of rare Welsh sunshine on his face.
*
Saw the pictures from your last thing
Gareth would have laughed if John had written 'concert' but he never would.
you googled me. perv.
Picture of John wiggling his tongue at him. Back in the UK next week. Meet?
Gareth doesn't reply for a day, blames the schedule and plans and things to do (pints, pizza, Gemma), then texts back a yes with his dick half-hard in the broken toilet stall of a countryside venue fangirls paid for. One of them expects a fuck later, has been throwing herself around and Gemma left for Newport earlier that day. He's not much tempted when he can think about John's arse instead and sticking his dick in it.
John doesn't reply, but Gareth doesn't expect him to. He wanks to his private porn narrative later in his room, Clarky snoring in the other bed and tries not to think of the porn in shots of close-up and medium close-ups and cgi effects.
*
"John's coming over," Gareth says over toast and coffee, hung-over, as he wriggles his fingers under his glasses, rubs at his eyes. Gone past two and they've barely made it out of bed.
Gemma is half-dressed, one of his t-shirts, no underwear, her cunt probably still soaking wet from their just-woken-up-still-drunk shag earlier. His jaw is sore, but Barrowman likes blowjobs. Will be interesting.
Gemma sips her coffee, ignores him.
"He's-"
"Get a room somewhere?" she asks eventually, head cocked to the side. "Or just - don't tell me. No, get a room. Have him book one. Not the St David's in Cardiff. You'd think he'd be smart enough not to."
Gareth holds up his toast with congealed butter to his line of sight, nods. "Fine."
It jars between them, and sometimes she wants to hear about it and sometimes she doesn't and fucked if he can ever figure out when is when but she doesn't throw shit at him over this like she does over fake sink sex stories (thanks very much, internet) or some fangirl jerking his cock and licking the spunk off her fingers later.
She doesn't explain more and he doesn't ask, only drops the toast crust to the plate. No idea how John deals with this with his fella but they don't exactly talk shit like that.
"I'll be back later then. Or tomorrow. Don't know." He grabs his jeans off the floor, pushes cigarettes and phone and keys into his pockets, collects his car keys from the dresser. He wants to kiss her for goodbye, proper boyfriend, but she turns her face and walks back into the bedroom. He shrugs it off and walks out. Whatever, he can't make sense of it and she'd never told him off. Knew what she was getting into.
He toys with his mobile as he walks to the car, thinks of making a reservation somewhere, then just texts meet me at the services junction 30 to John as he gets into the car, drives to fill up, pays 1.30 a litre, fuckers. He hits the M4 and pulls off at the services, rolls to a stop to the side of the parking lot and toys with his cigarettes to have a smoke if only to make John pull his ashtray-comment face. A smoke or a take-away coffee or a pack of chips, he could do with that. He turns up the music instead and waits, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
John pulls up in one of his normal cars, some sense of self-preservation over dramatics, next to him ten minutes later. Gareth rolls down the window, John does the same.
"Not doing it in a parking lot," John says, American accent stronger than ever. LA must have done a deal there. He drops a hand to his crotch though, nice that, even as his voice barely carries between the cars. People are milling somewhere far enough away.
"It'd look good in the Mail." The joke tastes sour, mostly because it's true. "Travelodge?"
"Newport though, yeah? Let's avoid Cardiff."
"Not Newport." Too many mates of his that could talk. "Scott's at yours, I take it?" John nods, bit clipped, but it's not much of Gareth's business. "Bristol? Travelodge off the M5, what is it, junction 17. Let me go in and pay upfront, you come round the back?"
"Didn't know that one." Meaningful glances.
Gareth flips him off.
John smirks and Gareth waves that away, mostly with a thought of how those lips will be wrapped around his dick in an hour. Gareth pulls out ahead of John and speeds off down the M4, wave to Newport and eventually Bristol. They get a family room with pullout bed and Gareth's thinking the glasses probably work the way they did for Clark Kent or the girl behind the counter either doesn't let on or genuinely doesn't know him. Indian or something, the girl. He tries to stick to smiles and fills out the form with fake information like a pro.
It's him, only him.
No, not really, but he doesn't keep a sex-on-the-side diary.
He texts the room number to John on the way up. Bloke will have the sense not to waltz through the lobby with a big smile and stride and all out Barrowman flair he hopes, and takes the stairs to the room, lets himself in. John knocks a few minutes later, just as Gareth's toeing off his shoes. Should've stopped at McD on the way, got those chips and a cheeseburger. Figures he's dying for a cheeseburger now.
"Nice," John says, stepping into the room. He drops his jacket over a chair, makes a kissy face. Gareth rolls his eyes and turns on the telly, daytime tv of talkshows and infomercials. He sits on the edge of the bed, remote in hand, flicking through the channels while he undoes his trousers with his free hand. John is stripping down next to him.
"I'd murder for some chips," Gareth says and drops the remote on the bedding, pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket instead as he wriggles out of his jeans.
John gives him the eye; Gareth flips him off and walks to the side of the room, cracks open a window as he lights the cigarette. Welsh air blows in cold and he shifts, him in his boxerpants and the t-shirt hanging loose on him, and John in his y-fronts, watching the telly, then picking up the remote to try and find himself, no doubt. That or QVC.
"You're not on." Gareth blows the smoke out the window.
"You pissed with me or something?" John gestures with the remote like a laser.
Gareth shakes his head, flicks the cigarette out the window. "Just Gemma being difficult, work, lack of it." He waves it away. John makes a pretense of wanting to care, but Gareth shrugs out of his pants and that shuts John up and gives him the vacant fuck eyes look. John steps out of his pants and sits on the bed, pulls Gareth closer by his arse and bends down.
Lips on dick, tight, warm heat. Gareth spreads his stance a bit, and while there's nothing to homos being better cocksuckers than women, Barrowman's a pro even when Gemma isn't half-bad.
Gareth watches his dick slide between John's lips, the wet sounds, some vacuum cleaner going on outside and he should have put up the do not disturb sign. It's been a few months with John in LA, good to have this again. Gareth is happy to force his dick down John's throat when he's gagging for it, fingers clamped into Gareth's arse cheeks to keep him from pulling away.
"Take it, nice and deep."
John glances up from his dick, strains to look at Gareth, reaches up and traces the rim of the glasses. Gareth laughs, it makes himself jerk and John choke. Good to know he can still intrigue the man who has all and likes to fuck and be discreet enough about it that it's not all over the press like his dick on the radio.
Gareth pulls out and leaves John gasping, spit stringing between dick and mouth, and John wipes at that with the back of his hand.
"Hotel bed!" John whoops and throws himself back into it, leaving his dick half-hard in Gareth's line of sight. "C'mon, suck it," John says and props himself up on one elbow, strokes himself until Gareth drops to his knees like a good rentboy. He flexes his jaw, sore from eating out Gemma this morning and last night, drunkenly, he vaguely remembers, girl likes getting oral more than she does giving it, and gives John's cock a lick, then pushes his tongue at John's fingers until he removes his hand from his cock and leans back, watching, threading his hand into Gareth's hair instead.
"You got rougher," John says, as he pushes his hips up to thrust into Gareth's mouth. "Stayed rough, maybe," he scratches at the stubbles, pulls at the hair, and Gareth can tell John likes it when he tries to pull him down on his cock and Gareth pinches his thigh in retribution. "Ass." But John lets up a little. "What's with the glasses?"
Gareth shakes his head and gargles piss off around the dick in his mouth, tries to deep-throat because it makes John keen, but it's not on today. He pulls off and curls his fingers around John's dick instead, only slurps on the head, foreskin pulled all the way back. John thumps back onto the bed, hips pushing up. Good to see this, cause this, reduce him to that. Gareth slobbers over his own hand and John lets out a shout, not having to be quiet here, not like the trailer or behind one of the sets or in the bloody bathroom while John's fella is working in his office because John was in the mood and Scott wasn't.
John is fingering Gareth's glasses while Gareth sucks along the side of John's cock. He thinks he's sucking fuckbites (they don't do love) and tongues the head, the slit, rolls John's balls in his fingers. One of their mobiles goes off with a text-message chirp and John is rolling halfway off the bed before Gareth presses him down by the hips and tries to deep-throat despite a bitch of a gag reflex.
"Not bad," John mutters, brushes the hair from Gareth face to watch. Nothing's like the first time in John's trailer. They'd been pissing around and suddenly he'd been on his knees with his face pressed to John's crotch and enjoying it. He had to shower in John's trailer and explain the lack of make-up and wet hair to the make-up people while John had been smug.
Gareth pulls off John's cock and grabs John's mobile from his jeans, throws it at John on the bed before he drops down beside him, angling for the remote again. John's laughing at the text, maybe a photo from a fuckbuddy in the States, he must have them in every port.
"LA good?" Gareth asks.
John nods as he's texting whoever back. "Newport?" He's smirking. Arse.
Gareth shrugs and leaves the telly on BBC news, some war coverage from something. He stretches out on the bed. "Room service?"
"No, thanks." John throws the phone to the side, then props himself up, looking down at Gareth intently enough that it makes Gareth want to grab a shirt to cover the flab and the hair. Barrowman is too pretty. "I'll have to be back in Cardiff in a couple hours, meetings."
"Oh running out on our date," Gareth simpers, because he can, just before John wraps his hand around Gareth's dick and brushes his thumb over the head, fingers squeezing. Gareth's hand flies to John's wrist stilling him for a moment as his hips thrust up, and he's gurgling in his throat, cracking John up in mid-stroke.
"You're so easy." John presses a dry kiss to the side of Gareth's neck, dry affection literally and jerks him slowly, watching Gareth's dick disappear in his fist and reappear, chuckling over twitching thighs and twitching stomach flab. "You wear them for more free fucks, don't you?"
"Piss off." Gareth turns his face into the pillow, feet planted on the mattress and pushing himself into John's hand. "Can I fuck you?"
John is still nodding in self-affirmation, then shakes his head. "Rather not, Scott did this morning."
"Right." Gareth snorts laughter. There goes his pushing his dick into Barrowman's arse good thought for the day. "What's one more dick in your arse though?"
John turns his head and raised an eyebrow at Gareth. "Handjob, blowjob or nothing, darling," he says in dragqueen voice, waving his fingers about until Gareth grabs his wrist and pushes the hand to his dick again.
"Blow me, then," Gareth says. "I'll do you later." It opens up his day if John can't stay anyway, even though he knows better than to go home to Gemma with blowjob lips and semen breath. There's some Jack Daniel's in the mini bar, surely. John leans down and swallows him. "The glasses work on you for the fuck." Idle observation while he keeps his fingers in John's hair and pushes his cock into his mouth, fucking John Barrowman's mouth like a blowup doll's, even if John's better and Gareth has no manpart blowup dolls. Doesn't matter much on the mouth either way. Hole's a hole and John's is wet and hot and right there, begging for deeper with noises in his throat and the tongue pressed to the underside of Gareth's cock. John's loving it, playing up the noises just a notch when Gareth's movements grow more erratic and he's fucking his mouth hard, using it to get off.
John's fingers are digging into Gareth's thigh, head bobbing, being obscene and loud and so good. Gareth curls his fingers into John's short hair and pulls him down hard, keeps him there, John's throat twitching around him, coughing, until Gareth comes, not that considerate, with those last little jerks and hip movements. John's coughing slides Gareth's come down his chin and Gareth wipes it away with his thumb and then wipes it on the sheets, wonders if fans would try to steal it to make babies.
Not thinking about babies. Gemma's been on him with that.
John is breathing hard, kneeling back on the bed and grinning like an idiot while he is fisting his dick. Gareth slides underneath John's spread, kneeling legs, because John likes being in control when he's not being fucked face-first into a pillow. John's balls dangle on his glasses and that is all kinds of wrong, but then he opens his lips and the head of John's dick slides in over his tongue and deeper, pushing in, John moaning above him and Gareth's dick is twitching. He's halfway wishing he was still hard just to jerk off as he's sucking John, alas, he's not and it's more of a perfunctory service, out stretched tongue and swallow and then scoot back far enough that his head is hanging off the bed and John's standing and can thrust into Gareth's throat, make it click and him gurgle with spit and precome.
Gareth keeps one hand on John's thigh and John slides his manpaw over it there, keeping it as he uses Gareth as a fucktoy. Gareth figures that's what they are doing this time around, mutual fucktoying, when usually it's a bit more playful and they're not both high up with stress of some kind.
John's looking older. Not that he'd tell him.
Maybe he'd text him.
When John comes Gareth holds it in his mouth and spits it into the bedcovers, leave a mess for the maids (John will leave fifty quid for the clean-up, no doubt), making a face at it all. He takes off his glasses and cleans them on a corner of his shirt that he fishes from the floor and puts on, flopping back on the bed where the Beeb is showing a repeat on something nature, a lion stalks around an antelope, ready to pounce, and John is half-watching while fiddling with his mobile. Texting.
Gareth lights another cigarette on the bed, leg touching John's and hip touching John's and chest touching John's through his shirt. He pulls the shirt down a bit to cover his dick.
"You'll set off the alarm."
"Would be hilarious," Gareth replies and lights the cigarette, smokes, head falling back to the headboard. John leans over and presses a kiss to his lips, then pulls a face. Gareth laughs. "Think you're secretly into that. All that ashtray talk, just for show. Get Scott to smoke sometime."
John shrugs, grins at a textmessage. "There's you for that."
"Suppose." Gareth blows out smoke. "Magic me some chips, J." His stomach is rumbling for them after only the toast in the morning.
"Drive down yourself."
John steals a pull from the cigarette then. Little wanker never told Scott about that part of his escapades. And Gareth isn't telling about that either. He likes those, the little secrets. They share the cigarette between them. Gareth offers John the rest of the pack for a laugh and grins at John's momentary waver towards it.
"Scott would have my head. I'd have my head. It'd fuck up my teeth." John flashes the pretty LA whites with accompanying lion-rawr soundtrack at Gareth, while Gareth's blowing smoke at him.
"You're under his thumb."
"It's love." John leans back against the headboard. Gareth would like to interpret irony into that, but it's hard to insert more irony than fucks on the side to a decade-long relationship. John's explained it, Scott makes him rinse with mouthwash. Whatever works, buddy.
"You get the invite for the concert?" John's stealing the cigarette from Gareth, holding it hostage in cupped hands like he's playing for smoking pot.
"Piss off."
"You'd be mauled by the crowd." Barrowman is cackling, smoking, still naked and prancing about the hotel room. "We could fuck after if you come to something not Cardiff or London, Scott won't travel for this."
Gareth shrugs, non-commital, and when he steals the cigarette back from John and John tries to take a kiss in return, he turns his cheek just enough to make it not be lips on lips. "Not sitting through one of your things for a shag."
John laughs. "You sure?"
"Gemma would want to come." Deathblow. Gareth exhales smoke in direction of the smoke detector that gets clouded and doesn't go off.
"I like her." John is pulling on his jeans, throwing on his shirt, stuffing his y-fronts into his pocket. "She's classy. Keep her happy."
Gareth waves him off with that. Maybe it's easier when you're a poof and fucking around is part of your life's ambition. Women didn't roll like that, but he didn't expect John to understand. John wouldn't recognize a cunt if it stared him in the face.
Niggling rumour about him and Eve, Gareth's never asked though.
John bums a cigarette and a lighter for the way home, and Gareth knows he'll find him smoking off at the services somewhere if he cared to follow but he stays in the room a few more hours. Flipping through daytime tv. Beating off. Writing songs. That kind of thing.
*
Gareth sent him a copy of the album, signed it with a heart and all and he gets a text back of it playing in Barrowman's car stereo, "Beat Oven" at 0:07 seconds floating in neon green in the info field. A second later, another photo, the track has changed to Aretha's I Say A Little Prayer For You and John sends a you lose with it.
Gareth nearly snorts morning coffee into the toast. Gemma is putting on her face, painting colour and black onto her eyes and getting pretty. He does like her pretty. Her and John both, he's easy as fuck.
She raises an eyebrow at him with the phone and he drops it on the table, waves his hands in apology.
Another text pings. John's up in Glasgow filming and they're up in Glasgow playing later in the week. There's a room number and a time. He's good with that.
"I'll just grab some chips." So much for the toast. He pockets the mobile and texts John a photo of himself in the mirror, pulling a face.
John texts back. Those glasses do work for the fuck-me. My ass is yours next week.
Pairing: TW RPF, JB/GDL
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3600 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: It's hardly love when they both have someone at home for that, but it's something that's started in the days of Torchwood and continues on, with the texts and the meetings somewhere, sometimes.
Notes: Written for
touchyerwood originally, reposted now.John texts a palm tree.
Arse.
Gareth texts back a picture of an old warehouse somewhere in the Welsh countryside where cameras are set up to film. They're on a break thanks to the drizzle that ate electricity somewhere.
Barrowman comes back with a LOL and a smiley face that is entirely too smug. Gareth shifts on his chair. It creaks, threatens to break. Creak, like that. Should've auctioned one more signed action figure or a book he never read for a better chair. He's trying to sneak a shot of Gemma eating a banana for the laughs and John's benefit but she gives him the v and he texts his crotch to Barrowman instead. Give him something to think about amidst silicon tits and botox arses.
Barrowman pulls his blowjob face in the next photo back, mouth begging to be fucked. Gareth texts back a picture of himself blowing a kiss to his camera phone.
Pause, then, nerd glasses? as a text back.
Gareth flips John off mentally and drops his phone on the rickety table next to him. Something falls off it, someone will pick it up again. He leans back in his chair (creak), and waits. He should go find a snack somewhere.
*
It's not warm enough here...
Gareth expects a shriveled dick picture to come with it, but it's only John's faux pout. They've wrapped and he's back to the grind with the band while Barrowman's still partying it high style in Los Angeles.
Whine moar, wanker, Gareth thinks to the phone and texts back a picture of rare Welsh sunshine on his face.
*
Saw the pictures from your last thing
Gareth would have laughed if John had written 'concert' but he never would.
you googled me. perv.
Picture of John wiggling his tongue at him. Back in the UK next week. Meet?
Gareth doesn't reply for a day, blames the schedule and plans and things to do (pints, pizza, Gemma), then texts back a yes with his dick half-hard in the broken toilet stall of a countryside venue fangirls paid for. One of them expects a fuck later, has been throwing herself around and Gemma left for Newport earlier that day. He's not much tempted when he can think about John's arse instead and sticking his dick in it.
John doesn't reply, but Gareth doesn't expect him to. He wanks to his private porn narrative later in his room, Clarky snoring in the other bed and tries not to think of the porn in shots of close-up and medium close-ups and cgi effects.
*
"John's coming over," Gareth says over toast and coffee, hung-over, as he wriggles his fingers under his glasses, rubs at his eyes. Gone past two and they've barely made it out of bed.
Gemma is half-dressed, one of his t-shirts, no underwear, her cunt probably still soaking wet from their just-woken-up-still-drunk shag earlier. His jaw is sore, but Barrowman likes blowjobs. Will be interesting.
Gemma sips her coffee, ignores him.
"He's-"
"Get a room somewhere?" she asks eventually, head cocked to the side. "Or just - don't tell me. No, get a room. Have him book one. Not the St David's in Cardiff. You'd think he'd be smart enough not to."
Gareth holds up his toast with congealed butter to his line of sight, nods. "Fine."
It jars between them, and sometimes she wants to hear about it and sometimes she doesn't and fucked if he can ever figure out when is when but she doesn't throw shit at him over this like she does over fake sink sex stories (thanks very much, internet) or some fangirl jerking his cock and licking the spunk off her fingers later.
She doesn't explain more and he doesn't ask, only drops the toast crust to the plate. No idea how John deals with this with his fella but they don't exactly talk shit like that.
"I'll be back later then. Or tomorrow. Don't know." He grabs his jeans off the floor, pushes cigarettes and phone and keys into his pockets, collects his car keys from the dresser. He wants to kiss her for goodbye, proper boyfriend, but she turns her face and walks back into the bedroom. He shrugs it off and walks out. Whatever, he can't make sense of it and she'd never told him off. Knew what she was getting into.
He toys with his mobile as he walks to the car, thinks of making a reservation somewhere, then just texts meet me at the services junction 30 to John as he gets into the car, drives to fill up, pays 1.30 a litre, fuckers. He hits the M4 and pulls off at the services, rolls to a stop to the side of the parking lot and toys with his cigarettes to have a smoke if only to make John pull his ashtray-comment face. A smoke or a take-away coffee or a pack of chips, he could do with that. He turns up the music instead and waits, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
John pulls up in one of his normal cars, some sense of self-preservation over dramatics, next to him ten minutes later. Gareth rolls down the window, John does the same.
"Not doing it in a parking lot," John says, American accent stronger than ever. LA must have done a deal there. He drops a hand to his crotch though, nice that, even as his voice barely carries between the cars. People are milling somewhere far enough away.
"It'd look good in the Mail." The joke tastes sour, mostly because it's true. "Travelodge?"
"Newport though, yeah? Let's avoid Cardiff."
"Not Newport." Too many mates of his that could talk. "Scott's at yours, I take it?" John nods, bit clipped, but it's not much of Gareth's business. "Bristol? Travelodge off the M5, what is it, junction 17. Let me go in and pay upfront, you come round the back?"
"Didn't know that one." Meaningful glances.
Gareth flips him off.
John smirks and Gareth waves that away, mostly with a thought of how those lips will be wrapped around his dick in an hour. Gareth pulls out ahead of John and speeds off down the M4, wave to Newport and eventually Bristol. They get a family room with pullout bed and Gareth's thinking the glasses probably work the way they did for Clark Kent or the girl behind the counter either doesn't let on or genuinely doesn't know him. Indian or something, the girl. He tries to stick to smiles and fills out the form with fake information like a pro.
It's him, only him.
No, not really, but he doesn't keep a sex-on-the-side diary.
He texts the room number to John on the way up. Bloke will have the sense not to waltz through the lobby with a big smile and stride and all out Barrowman flair he hopes, and takes the stairs to the room, lets himself in. John knocks a few minutes later, just as Gareth's toeing off his shoes. Should've stopped at McD on the way, got those chips and a cheeseburger. Figures he's dying for a cheeseburger now.
"Nice," John says, stepping into the room. He drops his jacket over a chair, makes a kissy face. Gareth rolls his eyes and turns on the telly, daytime tv of talkshows and infomercials. He sits on the edge of the bed, remote in hand, flicking through the channels while he undoes his trousers with his free hand. John is stripping down next to him.
"I'd murder for some chips," Gareth says and drops the remote on the bedding, pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket instead as he wriggles out of his jeans.
John gives him the eye; Gareth flips him off and walks to the side of the room, cracks open a window as he lights the cigarette. Welsh air blows in cold and he shifts, him in his boxerpants and the t-shirt hanging loose on him, and John in his y-fronts, watching the telly, then picking up the remote to try and find himself, no doubt. That or QVC.
"You're not on." Gareth blows the smoke out the window.
"You pissed with me or something?" John gestures with the remote like a laser.
Gareth shakes his head, flicks the cigarette out the window. "Just Gemma being difficult, work, lack of it." He waves it away. John makes a pretense of wanting to care, but Gareth shrugs out of his pants and that shuts John up and gives him the vacant fuck eyes look. John steps out of his pants and sits on the bed, pulls Gareth closer by his arse and bends down.
Lips on dick, tight, warm heat. Gareth spreads his stance a bit, and while there's nothing to homos being better cocksuckers than women, Barrowman's a pro even when Gemma isn't half-bad.
Gareth watches his dick slide between John's lips, the wet sounds, some vacuum cleaner going on outside and he should have put up the do not disturb sign. It's been a few months with John in LA, good to have this again. Gareth is happy to force his dick down John's throat when he's gagging for it, fingers clamped into Gareth's arse cheeks to keep him from pulling away.
"Take it, nice and deep."
John glances up from his dick, strains to look at Gareth, reaches up and traces the rim of the glasses. Gareth laughs, it makes himself jerk and John choke. Good to know he can still intrigue the man who has all and likes to fuck and be discreet enough about it that it's not all over the press like his dick on the radio.
Gareth pulls out and leaves John gasping, spit stringing between dick and mouth, and John wipes at that with the back of his hand.
"Hotel bed!" John whoops and throws himself back into it, leaving his dick half-hard in Gareth's line of sight. "C'mon, suck it," John says and props himself up on one elbow, strokes himself until Gareth drops to his knees like a good rentboy. He flexes his jaw, sore from eating out Gemma this morning and last night, drunkenly, he vaguely remembers, girl likes getting oral more than she does giving it, and gives John's cock a lick, then pushes his tongue at John's fingers until he removes his hand from his cock and leans back, watching, threading his hand into Gareth's hair instead.
"You got rougher," John says, as he pushes his hips up to thrust into Gareth's mouth. "Stayed rough, maybe," he scratches at the stubbles, pulls at the hair, and Gareth can tell John likes it when he tries to pull him down on his cock and Gareth pinches his thigh in retribution. "Ass." But John lets up a little. "What's with the glasses?"
Gareth shakes his head and gargles piss off around the dick in his mouth, tries to deep-throat because it makes John keen, but it's not on today. He pulls off and curls his fingers around John's dick instead, only slurps on the head, foreskin pulled all the way back. John thumps back onto the bed, hips pushing up. Good to see this, cause this, reduce him to that. Gareth slobbers over his own hand and John lets out a shout, not having to be quiet here, not like the trailer or behind one of the sets or in the bloody bathroom while John's fella is working in his office because John was in the mood and Scott wasn't.
John is fingering Gareth's glasses while Gareth sucks along the side of John's cock. He thinks he's sucking fuckbites (they don't do love) and tongues the head, the slit, rolls John's balls in his fingers. One of their mobiles goes off with a text-message chirp and John is rolling halfway off the bed before Gareth presses him down by the hips and tries to deep-throat despite a bitch of a gag reflex.
"Not bad," John mutters, brushes the hair from Gareth face to watch. Nothing's like the first time in John's trailer. They'd been pissing around and suddenly he'd been on his knees with his face pressed to John's crotch and enjoying it. He had to shower in John's trailer and explain the lack of make-up and wet hair to the make-up people while John had been smug.
Gareth pulls off John's cock and grabs John's mobile from his jeans, throws it at John on the bed before he drops down beside him, angling for the remote again. John's laughing at the text, maybe a photo from a fuckbuddy in the States, he must have them in every port.
"LA good?" Gareth asks.
John nods as he's texting whoever back. "Newport?" He's smirking. Arse.
Gareth shrugs and leaves the telly on BBC news, some war coverage from something. He stretches out on the bed. "Room service?"
"No, thanks." John throws the phone to the side, then props himself up, looking down at Gareth intently enough that it makes Gareth want to grab a shirt to cover the flab and the hair. Barrowman is too pretty. "I'll have to be back in Cardiff in a couple hours, meetings."
"Oh running out on our date," Gareth simpers, because he can, just before John wraps his hand around Gareth's dick and brushes his thumb over the head, fingers squeezing. Gareth's hand flies to John's wrist stilling him for a moment as his hips thrust up, and he's gurgling in his throat, cracking John up in mid-stroke.
"You're so easy." John presses a dry kiss to the side of Gareth's neck, dry affection literally and jerks him slowly, watching Gareth's dick disappear in his fist and reappear, chuckling over twitching thighs and twitching stomach flab. "You wear them for more free fucks, don't you?"
"Piss off." Gareth turns his face into the pillow, feet planted on the mattress and pushing himself into John's hand. "Can I fuck you?"
John is still nodding in self-affirmation, then shakes his head. "Rather not, Scott did this morning."
"Right." Gareth snorts laughter. There goes his pushing his dick into Barrowman's arse good thought for the day. "What's one more dick in your arse though?"
John turns his head and raised an eyebrow at Gareth. "Handjob, blowjob or nothing, darling," he says in dragqueen voice, waving his fingers about until Gareth grabs his wrist and pushes the hand to his dick again.
"Blow me, then," Gareth says. "I'll do you later." It opens up his day if John can't stay anyway, even though he knows better than to go home to Gemma with blowjob lips and semen breath. There's some Jack Daniel's in the mini bar, surely. John leans down and swallows him. "The glasses work on you for the fuck." Idle observation while he keeps his fingers in John's hair and pushes his cock into his mouth, fucking John Barrowman's mouth like a blowup doll's, even if John's better and Gareth has no manpart blowup dolls. Doesn't matter much on the mouth either way. Hole's a hole and John's is wet and hot and right there, begging for deeper with noises in his throat and the tongue pressed to the underside of Gareth's cock. John's loving it, playing up the noises just a notch when Gareth's movements grow more erratic and he's fucking his mouth hard, using it to get off.
John's fingers are digging into Gareth's thigh, head bobbing, being obscene and loud and so good. Gareth curls his fingers into John's short hair and pulls him down hard, keeps him there, John's throat twitching around him, coughing, until Gareth comes, not that considerate, with those last little jerks and hip movements. John's coughing slides Gareth's come down his chin and Gareth wipes it away with his thumb and then wipes it on the sheets, wonders if fans would try to steal it to make babies.
Not thinking about babies. Gemma's been on him with that.
John is breathing hard, kneeling back on the bed and grinning like an idiot while he is fisting his dick. Gareth slides underneath John's spread, kneeling legs, because John likes being in control when he's not being fucked face-first into a pillow. John's balls dangle on his glasses and that is all kinds of wrong, but then he opens his lips and the head of John's dick slides in over his tongue and deeper, pushing in, John moaning above him and Gareth's dick is twitching. He's halfway wishing he was still hard just to jerk off as he's sucking John, alas, he's not and it's more of a perfunctory service, out stretched tongue and swallow and then scoot back far enough that his head is hanging off the bed and John's standing and can thrust into Gareth's throat, make it click and him gurgle with spit and precome.
Gareth keeps one hand on John's thigh and John slides his manpaw over it there, keeping it as he uses Gareth as a fucktoy. Gareth figures that's what they are doing this time around, mutual fucktoying, when usually it's a bit more playful and they're not both high up with stress of some kind.
John's looking older. Not that he'd tell him.
Maybe he'd text him.
When John comes Gareth holds it in his mouth and spits it into the bedcovers, leave a mess for the maids (John will leave fifty quid for the clean-up, no doubt), making a face at it all. He takes off his glasses and cleans them on a corner of his shirt that he fishes from the floor and puts on, flopping back on the bed where the Beeb is showing a repeat on something nature, a lion stalks around an antelope, ready to pounce, and John is half-watching while fiddling with his mobile. Texting.
Gareth lights another cigarette on the bed, leg touching John's and hip touching John's and chest touching John's through his shirt. He pulls the shirt down a bit to cover his dick.
"You'll set off the alarm."
"Would be hilarious," Gareth replies and lights the cigarette, smokes, head falling back to the headboard. John leans over and presses a kiss to his lips, then pulls a face. Gareth laughs. "Think you're secretly into that. All that ashtray talk, just for show. Get Scott to smoke sometime."
John shrugs, grins at a textmessage. "There's you for that."
"Suppose." Gareth blows out smoke. "Magic me some chips, J." His stomach is rumbling for them after only the toast in the morning.
"Drive down yourself."
John steals a pull from the cigarette then. Little wanker never told Scott about that part of his escapades. And Gareth isn't telling about that either. He likes those, the little secrets. They share the cigarette between them. Gareth offers John the rest of the pack for a laugh and grins at John's momentary waver towards it.
"Scott would have my head. I'd have my head. It'd fuck up my teeth." John flashes the pretty LA whites with accompanying lion-rawr soundtrack at Gareth, while Gareth's blowing smoke at him.
"You're under his thumb."
"It's love." John leans back against the headboard. Gareth would like to interpret irony into that, but it's hard to insert more irony than fucks on the side to a decade-long relationship. John's explained it, Scott makes him rinse with mouthwash. Whatever works, buddy.
"You get the invite for the concert?" John's stealing the cigarette from Gareth, holding it hostage in cupped hands like he's playing for smoking pot.
"Piss off."
"You'd be mauled by the crowd." Barrowman is cackling, smoking, still naked and prancing about the hotel room. "We could fuck after if you come to something not Cardiff or London, Scott won't travel for this."
Gareth shrugs, non-commital, and when he steals the cigarette back from John and John tries to take a kiss in return, he turns his cheek just enough to make it not be lips on lips. "Not sitting through one of your things for a shag."
John laughs. "You sure?"
"Gemma would want to come." Deathblow. Gareth exhales smoke in direction of the smoke detector that gets clouded and doesn't go off.
"I like her." John is pulling on his jeans, throwing on his shirt, stuffing his y-fronts into his pocket. "She's classy. Keep her happy."
Gareth waves him off with that. Maybe it's easier when you're a poof and fucking around is part of your life's ambition. Women didn't roll like that, but he didn't expect John to understand. John wouldn't recognize a cunt if it stared him in the face.
Niggling rumour about him and Eve, Gareth's never asked though.
John bums a cigarette and a lighter for the way home, and Gareth knows he'll find him smoking off at the services somewhere if he cared to follow but he stays in the room a few more hours. Flipping through daytime tv. Beating off. Writing songs. That kind of thing.
*
Gareth sent him a copy of the album, signed it with a heart and all and he gets a text back of it playing in Barrowman's car stereo, "Beat Oven" at 0:07 seconds floating in neon green in the info field. A second later, another photo, the track has changed to Aretha's I Say A Little Prayer For You and John sends a you lose with it.
Gareth nearly snorts morning coffee into the toast. Gemma is putting on her face, painting colour and black onto her eyes and getting pretty. He does like her pretty. Her and John both, he's easy as fuck.
She raises an eyebrow at him with the phone and he drops it on the table, waves his hands in apology.
Another text pings. John's up in Glasgow filming and they're up in Glasgow playing later in the week. There's a room number and a time. He's good with that.
"I'll just grab some chips." So much for the toast. He pockets the mobile and texts John a photo of himself in the mirror, pulling a face.
John texts back. Those glasses do work for the fuck-me. My ass is yours next week.
