prodigalflame | [For Bobby] Dinner is served. [Late March, NSFW]

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[For Bobby] Dinner is served. [Late March, NSFW]

There was something oddly satisfying about cooking. It was like getting back at his mom and showing up everyone he ever knew all at once. Chopping ingredients and sorting through recipes - sure, he was a lot more haphazard than his mom had ever raised him to be, but he got shit done. The actual act of cooking was restorative, using his powers in a fashion that didn't lead to ash and char and devastation.

Mind, right now, his mind wasn't entirely on the recipe he was preparing. After all, he was standing there in his apron and a pair of socks and not much else. Trying to ignore just how aware he was of his bare butt, John 'hmmm'd like it was any other evening, and turned the page of his tattered old recipe book, glancing between the ingredients he'd roughly chopped on the counter and the illustration.

Fuck it, Italian food was always supposed to be a bit rustic. He'd wing the rest, he decided, and got on with it, igniting the gas under the pot of water with a flick of a switch - and then keeping it going with his mind. Cooking with powers was trickier than most people would assume, especially with his powers - he was still dependent on something else igniting the flame, and then he had to manually control the flame despite the flow of the gas through the stove. He'd been doing it since he was 14, though - so that was something. And he sang a little to himself, snatches of stupid dorky love songs, as he decided to chop up some salami and olives.

At least when Bobby came home he'd have two surprises waiting for him.

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The cold didn't bother Bobby, but it was still a pleasant feeling, moving from the still-brisk weather outside into the cozy warmth of the house. "I'm home," he called out, as if the door opening and closing hadn't announced it.

John had had the hearth going earlier to take the chill off the morning, and then banked it with a glance. He'd then left it to die out slowly through the day, little more than dwindling embers until he'd shoved on another two small logs, some kindling, and summoned the blaze back and made it roaring. He wasn't going to stand there mostly naked and have his balls freeze off.

And while it had taken some while for the warmth to radiate through the house, he was pretty comfortable (all things considered). A little embarrassed though, and huffing out indignation at the thought of just where his blush might extend to. Still, by the time Bobby had gotten through the door, everything had gotten chopped, lightly tossed with some garlic in a pan and set aside, still waiting for the damn pot to boil. Damn stupid big pot.

"I hope you haven't been replaced by some alien robot pod clone thing," John called back, all too aware of exactly what he wasn't wearing. "That would be embarrassing."

Bobby grinned and followed the direction of John's voice. "Not last I checked--whoa." He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen as he caught his first glimpse at John's current cooking attire. "This is new. I mean...I think it is. Do you do this a lot, and I just don't know it?" he had to ask, grinning faintly. New or not, it was a nice surprise to come home to.

"I told you one time I'd cook in just the apron," John remarked, a faint thread of grumble in his tone: "And then I realised I had to make good on it, and now I'm not sure whether this was supposed to be a challenge for me, or one for you." He brandished a wooden spoon at his boyfriend, as if warding him off. Not that a wooden spoon would be much good, but turning the kitchen into a fiery inferno was really not on the agenda. "I'm not used to being bare-assed. It feels weird." Not exactly comfortable with his own nudity, was John.

Still, that slight grin of Bobby's was probably good enough reason to not insist on getting dressed any time soon. "You think it's weird?"

Bobby moved into the kitchen, grabbing himself a beer and leaning against the island where he had an excellent view of John's bare ass. "I think it's sexy as hell," he purred, popping the lid from his beer and adding an extra chill to it before taking a sip of the frosty liquid. "Please, carry on. I'll just enjoy the view."

At least the pot had fucking boiled. Maybe he could use the heat from the stove and the exertion of his powers to explain the slight blush on his face? Hell, that was his story, anyway. So John tossed in a pinch of salt and a very small amount of oil, then dumped the pasta in and watched the pot until it came back to the boil, then let it simmer with the wave of a hand.

"You should try going bare-assed around the house sometime, I bet you would think it's weird," John snarked at him, but fondly. His lover seemed to have a slightly higher moral threshold than John did. He ignored the compliment, mostly, except for a deliberately tempting little wiggle, pushing his butt out more than he actually had to as he leaned over the stove.

Bobby grinned as he watched John, enjoying the show and starting to formulate an idea. "What, do you want me to vacuum naked or something?" he asked, chuckling low at the mental image of that.

"Maybe we should have a designated day," John suggested, his own grin a bit more crooked: "'Drive Your Boyfriend Crazy With Nudity Tuesday'." Heating up the frypan, he seared the chopped salami, then set it aside to sauté some garlic. The baby tomatoes he'd already partly roasted got tossed in as well, then some dry white wine, which generally added to the sizzle and the aromas wafting through the kitchen. And all without doing more than the odd wave of his hand or blink of his eye, when it came to varying the heat.

"Still, I understand if you feel outclassed. The Allerdyces are Scottish if you got back far enough, so there's a cultural history to bearing out backsides." By all rights he should have gotten a fucking kilt.

Bobby didn't respond. He was too busy crossing the kitchen, his footsteps nearly silent in his socks, and then sinking carefully to his knees to close the last foot of distance. His hands cupped John's ass cheeks and spread them gently as he leaned in to run his tongue experimentally around the revealed opening (and hoping John didn't, like, start a grease fire or something. Maybe he should have paid more attention to what was happening on the stove at the moment.)

He needn't have worried. John wasn't fire in the way Bobby was ice - and he'd learned to live with that. It even had its advantages, at times like these. John controlled flame with his mind; without concentration, the flame went back to doing whatever it was supposed to be doing, a puppet with the strings cut. In this case, the gas stove simply returned to a more gentle heat. While he'd managed to get out a "Hey, what are you-" before that tongue made it very clear what Bobby was doing, afterwards John was in a sort of haze: a soft groan fell from his lips, body almost unwinding in relaxation as he rolled his hips back, trying to get more. "Holy fuck..." he groaned out, voice low and husky with arousal. It took him a few moments to blink at the stove and understand what he was seeing, before he reached with a languid arm to turn the gas off, and when that was done, he braced himself against the kitchen counter, bending just enough to stick his ass out a little more.

Bobby chuckled at the reaction he got, probing his tongue a little deeper, starting to gently fuck John's ass with it as his hands kneaded, his eyes closed as he let himself just enjoy the act he was performing.

"Jesus," John hissed, something near mindless even as he thrust his arse back against Bobby's tongue, his cock soon hard and leaking and making a goddamn mess against the kitchen counter as he squirmed every which way. Little more could be heard in the kitchen apart from John's pleas of "More" and "Fuck" and "please, Bobby," and the absolutely filthy noises that Bobby was making with his mouth.

The sounds he was drawing out of John were music to his ears. He moaned softly, reaching around to wrap his fingers around John's cock and stroke slowly as he continued thrusting his tongue, pausing to pull back and tease around the opening for a moment before pressing deeper again.

A few more moments of that and John came to himself for a brief spell of lucidity: "Dragging you to...the shower after this, fuck." It was half-promise, half-threat, a keening cry that even after he'd come, he would make sure Bobby came too. Heck, they could fuck the whole night away for all that John cared. Another moan, and it felt like Bobby was forcing them out of his throat, making him louder and more wanton with each cry, breaking a lifetime's habit of a certain kind of control.

Thrusting between Bobby's face and his hand in a jerky, incoherent manner, it didn't take long for John to pant out that Bobby could fuck him here or fuck him later, but speaking for himself? He was gonna come soon.

All over the kitchen cupboards. Fuck. That just made him harder. They better start christening all the damn rooms in the house.

Bobby groaned, half-wishing he had a free hand so he could rub his own hard cock through his pants, but he would just have to be content to wait, and in the meantime the sounds he was inspiring from John were their own kind of exquisite torture, each sending a surge of heat through him.

The offer to fuck him, broken by gasps and moans, was tempting, but Bobby gave a little shake of his head and redoubled his efforts. No, he wanted to make John come just like this, at least this time, and that was made pretty clear without him stopping to utter a single word, simply in the single-minded focus he was putting into the task at hand (and at tongue).

"Ohmygod," fell from John's lips like a curse and a utterance of thanks when he realised that Bobby was not, in fact, gonna fuck him. "You're gonna-" And then he just hitched his head back and opened his mouth to moan, instinctual, loud, and utterly wanton even as Bobby's tongue worked deeper and John wriggled a little, squirming under Bobby's grasp and care until he was undone with a grunting "-Fuck."

And then he was coming hard, spurting all over the goddamn kitchen cupboard, body shuddering and sweaty and flushed from the power of his orgasm, settling with clawed fingers against the counter-top to heave out breaths in the afterglow.

Bobby grinned, easing back as he felt John come, squeezing his hip gently before he sat back on his heels, looking pretty damn smug. That had been fun. "God, you're so hot," he murmured, climbing to his feet as he waited for John to recover from his orgasm.

John turned to look at him, eyes fixed on Bobby's mouth. The mouth that had just explored him in that most intimate of places, and even though as he was still panting, he had Bobby up against the counter himself quick-smart, and kissed him deep and long to taste himself on those lips. Bobby was pretty fucking hot as far as he was concerned.

Taking a ragged breath, John turned away and swallowed: "...I am not cooking tonight," he declared, with just the hint of a grin. "But I think we should order pizza, and then I should blow you." John ran such a sophisticated household.

Bobby laughed softly, glancing at the half-prepared meal he'd interrupted. "Sorry, didn't mean to kill your cooking groove," he said with a grin, clearly not sorry at all. "I'm good with your new plan." Especially the blowing him part. He was achingly hard, and that kiss had done nothing to alleviate that in the slightest. "But if that's the order we're doing this in--order fast," he added, moving up to press his body against John's back, letting him feel the arousal, feel how hard doing that had made Bobby.

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