prodigalflame | Entries tagged with st john allerdyce

John had been curious about ever since Bobby had unpacked. He'd found the toy amongst Bobby's things, and slipped it aside into a drawer while Bobby was in the kitchen. He wasn't about to confront Bobby about it: for someone with thrilled to the idea of getting caught, actual sex and actual sexual habits could still make him clam up like the boy next door Bobby wanted to be.

Boys next door had dildos, though. They had toys, and fiancés, and they fucked like rabbits in the men's room of at least three pubs John could name. As far as John could tell, there was nothing incompatible with helping old ladies across the street and being the biggest dorky dad ever, and having a healthy, active, and mildly kinky sex life. All Bobby needed was to bridge the gap.

And besides, John really wanted to try the fucking thing. Bobby certainly hadn't taken it with him back to Boston, and so he must have bought it there, played with it under covers and behind closed doors, mouth clamped shut even as he'd thought of John, John, John.

"You're an adventurous slut there, sweetheart," John had muttered when he'd had an afternoon to himself, and gotten it out, checked all the settings, the batteries, all of it. He propped up the pillows on their bed, kicked away the covers, and slid back, slicking his fingers up with lube to play with himself gently. But that wasn't enough, that was not going to be enough. Eyeing the thing (it looked bigger now he was gonna use it, all glossy black and sleek), John took a breath, lowering himself down, and found with a bit of a noise that the head slid in easily. He moved around a bit to find the right angle and - yeah. That was good. Panting a little in anticipation, John grunted as he got it all the way in, and only then did he turn it onto the lowest setting, a near-instant sheen of sweat coating his face, body unable to do more than rock as it set up waves of pleasure deep within him, face going slacker and slacker in ecstasy.

These days, the evening meal was quiet in the Allerdrake household. There were the usual, half-hearted attempts at conversation, a cursory 'how was your day?', while John poked at his food and pretended to not notice what Bobby was eating. Or pretended not to hear about what a great workout he'd had at gym.

The evenings were like that too, more than most, and the days stretched, filled in by uncomfortable silences that even John didn't want to interrupt. When they had sex, or cuddled, or brought a sudden, impulsive smile to each other's lips, it felt good, so shockingly good and rare and true that for John at least it threw the other, dreary-dull-polite times into stark contrast.

While John had never, could never, would never do the crazy vegan thing, he wasn't doing a lot of frying or roasting. Instead, he was making a lot of salads: mostly with grilled haloumi, or chicken tossed through, or couscous and roasted vegetables, stuff like that. It was the closest he could come to a compromise. And salads seemed to suit the summer.

Besides, Bobby was judging him well enough, for not being ridiculous in his culinary habits, so John sat at the table in muted silence and speared a cube of cooked haloumi with his fork.

Some nights he could across at the living room and almost pretend he was alone at the table, alone in the house.

They had left London from St Pancras on the Eurostar early on the Thursday morning, one suitcase between them and just a couple of bits of hand luggage: this was a short getaway, John had said, not an exchange program. Bobby had made a list, of course, and John had groaned and kissed him anyway.

He'd made sure to get decent seats on the Eurostar too - standard premiere class so they had enough leg room and space and food that wasn't crap - although he'd spent most of his time with his nose in one of his texts, a hand absently stroking along Bobby's forearm as it rested on the seat arm between them.

Disembarking in Paris had been a bustle, with Bobby trying to remember his high school French and John popping open the phrase book and pointing to maps on his phone. Fortunately they arrived at the boutique hotel a little way off Avenue Victor Hugo without much more fuss, and John had promptly dived onto the bed for respite after they'd checked in. It was a nice room, all wood paneling and space and kind of grand, the kind of thing John had picked out (and Bobby had said 'Fine, that looks good' to), but he hadn't been allowed to flop down for too long before unpacking, and then hitting the pavement, mostly to gawk.

Paris was Paris. It wasn't New York, or San Francisco, or London or any of the places John had been to in the UK (which consisted entirely of Brighton, Oxford, Leeds and Hull); it had a air and atmosphere of its own, with seemingly insane traffic, vaguely amused Parisians, other gawking tourists (so they fit right in); the Metro, the sidewalk cafes, the history, the sense that everyone local was somehow better dressed - John's hand found Bobby's and he held it as they browsed maps and tourist guides and took photos and wandered around. For his nerves (and he had been nervous the last little while, all too conscious of the rings he had back in a suitcase in the hotel), he was gonna hold that hand and be proud and let everyone see it, fuck 'em if they had an issue.

That day was Midnight Mass (Bobby's idea), and John who'd been raised in faith and torn it down like everything else he used to believe in was moved by the sanctity of it, the sense of community. Respect must be paid. And Christmas morning they had lingered long in bed before John had reminded Bobby to get his ass in gear, promising that his present would come later. There was after all, an Eiffel Tower to visit, an ice rink to skate on, and a proposal to propose.

John felt weary as he clambered up the couple of steps to the porch. His legs were lead; his brow creased; his spine stiff and uncomfortable. He'd only stopped for one drink and that had clearly not been enough. It wasn't that he was tired, for his head was chasing itself around with unproductive, dark thoughts at fifty miles an hour.

Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the keys and even sliding them home in the lock seemed too much of a task. Around him the London gloom seemed oppressive, and it didn't seem to lift inside the house, all dark rooms and black windows, papers not done, books unread, the products of a life - his life - aimless and artless.

He hid the rings behind some boxes at the bottom shelf of one of many bookcases in his study, safe in the knowledge that Bobby didn't really infringe upon his privacy, didn't really impose, didn't really push - but god, sometimes he wished he did. Sometimes he was just plain tired of hiding things, of sorting through the truths to tell and parsing them, of biting his tongue, of pushing it down, of being - well, not a good guy, but a dishonest guy. Because that what it felt like.

Who did he have to confess to, now that no-one could ever figure out his crimes?

Closing his eyes, he pushed himself back up, and god, he felt old. He'd set fire to two businesses earlier that day, and it had felt good. Enjoyable, even. Pure. He'd kept himself to strict limits, there'd be no casualties, and he'd walked away with a chuckle in his eyes, but...it was the kind of shit he'd pulled when he was a kid. Petty. Angry. Us versus them. And running into Em, and hearing her story; and then running into Jag - it reminded him there were different ways of using power, of loving fire, of being him.

Bobby was probably upstairs, but John didn't go up. It felt too much like forgiveness. Bobby always did, even at Alcatraz. Then, it had just made him angrier. Now, it shamed him. So he rummaged around in the kitchen for the bottle of vodka he stashed away for nights like this, and retired to the couch to drink, and drink, and drink.

After bumping into Em at the New Artist Fair, John thought about stalking around the streets of London for a while. He'd stayed to look at some of the other artists, but only as long as he thought necessary: now, especially now, he was just being a college kid again, just some irate doofus who made stupid comments about art. Nothing to see here, thank you very much.

If he hadn't have been so furious, he might have been concerned at how easily he dove into habits of a life gone by: checking where the CCTV was, keeping the collar of his jacket up, careful to cross roads in the thick of a crowd. Always assuming that someone might be watching. Just because that red-headed fascist hadn't shown up to put the word up him again didn't mean they weren't around.

Because now they were after Em, it seemed. And from Em, to him, and from him to Bobby.

In the end he'd moved from the fair back to the house with a predator's efficiency through the afternoon throng: kicking it around the streets wasn't the right thing to do. He was too intense for that, too cursed with dark thoughts and darker desires, and they kept stewing in his mind. And again, wandering around London while being stone cold sober was just asking for someone to wonder what the fuck he was up to.

So he let the gate latch close behind him with a clink, opened up the door like any normal person, and casually closed it behind him. Striding down the corridor, he was like a different man, in a different house; wary, coiled tight, the walking wounded, and practically hopped over the back of the couch to land there, knees pulled up, and didn't look at the TV or his boyfriend. Didn't especially care if he'd interrupted Bobby watching what the fuck ever.

"Some people came looking for Em," he announced, in a hard tone. "Possible kidnap attempt, possible damage intended." He wasn't sure which would be worse. Finally then, he pulled his lighter out, rubbed it across a palm. "I think someone's looking for us." And only then did he let himself look at Bobby.

Heathrow was a bitch. Okay, that was discriminatory. Heathrow was a fucking nightmare. "It would have been so much easier to just take the train," John muttered to himself as he drove around the short-stay car park. But while taking the rail link to and from town would have been convenient and cheap, it would have also meant exposing Bobby to a bunch of people in a train carriage. And for all that the trip had gone well (or so he'd been told) and the flight across the pond was not so long (or so he'd experienced), John just couldn't do that to his boyfriend.

After having to spend happy fake time with his family and probably lying through his teeth all the while (which John didn't question, even if he took some umbrage in the back of his head), John wanted him to have some privacy and the capacity to relax a little.

So he'd hired a car. He didn't have one in London; didn't need one. They were close enough into town to use the Tube, walk to the shops, and get to college. But that day he'd gritted his teeth, picked up a car from the lot and remembered to drive on the wrong side of the road.

About half an hour later he was inside the surging mass of humanity, found the gate Bobby's plane was arriving at, and then he stood there in chinos and a t-shirt because it was still warm in the London summer, tapping his toe anxiously with no lighter to flick.

Whereas some of the starched shirts in the crowd held up signs for the people they were picking up, John did as well - but his simply read 'my boyfriend'.

While they'd only been living in the same room for a while, it was clear to anyone that John was mildly messy. His clothes might be folded and stuffed in a drawer (not always the same drawer, or with the right things), but there were piles of books that only made sense to him, as well as associated music stuff over in the corner. He kept most of his marking in the study downstairs, deliberately trying to wall off 'work' from the more enjoyable things that happened in the bedroom. Mind, enjoying Bobby seemed to happen in every room of the house, so it was probably a futile quest.

Still, in the wardrobe there was a plastic storage container with a snap-lock top, the type people used to store socks, or spare handyman equipment (batteries, bolts and nails), and a million other little things.

The container was on the top shelf; it could have held anything, wasn't stuffed under the bed or anything private. But it was John's porn collection: a couple of DVDs, one military themed, one office themed, both involving taking the new guy out for something beyond a simple hazing, with some bondage and some rough fucking, based on the DVD covers; a bundle of spank mags which tended to show men and women in authoritative poses, the men in suit and tie, the women in uniform, and a few with riding crops or paddles or cuffs on a nearby chair or hooked in belts. There were a bunch of mags with men in submissive poses as well, or as part of a couple. But just as the more authoritative figures were softened by smirks or crooked grins or the hint of a smile, the submissive partner was typically being held or pinned, chin in the other's hand as a kiss was offered, a lot of full body contact. There were also a fair few shots with hands close around someone's neck as they kissed, and a lot of leather. Like, a lot.

(Both DVD covers featured boyishly handsome guys with blue eyes, not that that meant anything.)

And there were items, too, in the container: some rope, leather gloves, a riding crop, some padded leather cuffs with a loop to make them easier to fasten to whatever was handy, a ballgag, an eye-mask and a dildo. All of John's sexual history (and much of his fantasy life) laid out for anyone to see.