NOT ENOUGH and BEING GOOD
TITLE: NOT ENOUGH and BEING GOOD
AUTHOR: ayumie
RATING: NC-17, probably
PAIRING: John/Bobby
SUMMARY: And there’s something of a boy scout in John as well, because he’s always, always prepared.
NOTES: Thanks to lea724 for being a wonderful beta-reader. Two short companion pieces. Just trying to get a feeling for the boys before I start a longer fic. C&c welcome!
Not Enough
Bobby Drake was a good kid, the kind teachers cited when they were in need of a positive example. He was polite, handed in homework on time, and generally did his best to put everyone at ease. Bobby Drake was a good kid, except that good kids didn’t keep secrets from friends and teachers alike and good kids certainly didn’t fantasize about their best friend and what they would look like naked, on the bed, bent over his desk, or, God, on his knees in front of him, smiling like it was the best thing ever.
Bobby wasn’t quite sure when it had started - it wasn’t like it had been a conscious decision or anything. One just couldn’t control one’s dreams and, really, wasn’t that the crux of the matter? He used to write it off to frustration, stress, telepaths running amok, anything at all. Only after a few weeks he was rapidly running out of excuses and, God, what would he tell anyone? Because apparently not only did he have to dream about his best friend, his dreams had to keep getting more and more … twisted.
It would start harmless enough. St. John backed against a wall, or better still, the door of their room. For once he wouldn’t be toying with his precious zippo, because it’d be in Bobby’s hand, frozen and useless as he tossed it aside. John would be looking at him in a way usually reserved for fire and things capable of producing it, all dark eyes and parted lips. Then Bobby would kiss him, hard, the way he had always wanted to, and it’d be good, oh so good to feel that mouth yield beneath his. And John would yield, fucking moan as he’d twist a nipple just so, and then Bobby would be groaning as well because by then he’d be grinding against St. John, thigh against groin, and it’d be … perfect.
Change of scene and they’d be on the bed, John beneath him. His hand would be back under St. John’s shirt, or even better, there’d be no shirt, only John and so much bare skin. Bobby would have an arm across his throat, pressing down just hard enough to keep him in place as he touched. St. John would be groaning, bucking, lips forming his name and only that mouth could make something so innocent sound dirty. No pants. No underwear either, and John’s legs would be spread, allowing Bobby to press right down between them. John’s lighter would be back in his hand, perfect conductor for both, heat and cold, and ice could burn, too, and it was high time Johnny learned that much. He’d bring the frozen metal against the inside of John’s thigh, relishing his small scream. Saint fucking John Allerdyce, and how come in his dreams Bobby could curse like he meant it, when in reality it never sounded quite right coming from his mouth?
At that point, things would get a bit blurry. He’d be on top of John, thrusting into clenching heat. Arms around him, legs drawn up high for better access. Howls and moans and curses and Bobby would need to leave marks, anything to proclaim that, yes, he had been there. So he’d bite, scratch, drive himself harder into John and it had to hurt just a little, but somehow that’d make things even better. And, God, Johnny wouldn’t mind, would snarl and arch into his touch and harder and more and Bobby fucking please!
Every time he woke up, Bobby was torn between dread and arousal. He got up and quietly locked himself into the bathroom, bringing himself off with two quick jerks of his hand. Then he debated whether or not to throw up into the toilet. Mostly he ended up sitting in there for a while, back pressed against rapidly cooling tiles as he tried to fill his head with images of Rogue. At Mutant High, even thoughts were too much and this was not a conversation he wanted to have with Dr. Grey - or, God beware, the Professor - like, ever. It was just … wrong. In fact he could hardly bring himself to look at John even under the most innocent of circumstances, because this was John after all and somehow he’d be able to tell. So instead he spent his days hiding behind a girlfriend too caught up in her own troubles to pay him much attention and escaping into the nightly kitchen whenever he thought he couldn’t take it any longer. Of course he knew that things couldn’t continue like this forever, that sooner or later something would happen and break the fragile peace he was struggling so hard to maintain, but when it came down to it, Robert Drake was a good kid and nobody had ever taught him that sometimes that wasn’t enough.
Being Good
St. John Allerdyce knew what people saw when they looked at him. The bad boy, the troublemaker. Most of the time he didn’t mind, played on it when it was to his advantage. As often as not, he even thought that they were right. He liked to have the upper hand, know something other people didn’t, be able to do something they didn’t expect, and he could never resist the temptation to rub their faces in it. He didn’t do apologies, polite lies and, most importantly, self-sacrifice. In fact sacrifices in any shape and form were to be avoided at all costs.
But as John knew, there was an exception to every rule, and his was Bobby Drake, all-American boy-scout and his roommate. For Bobby, John was willing to make excuses, willing to ignore a total lack of street smarts and a staggering amount of bullshit. For Bobby, John was willing to make sacrifices. Considering that he had been wanting the other boy for what felt like forever, he was doing a damn good job at it, too. And it wasn’t that it was impossible, either. In fact, John felt pretty confident about his ability to seduce. Only this was Bobby, his friend, who actually cared about things, and somehow that made John care as well. No, if he could help it, he wouldn’t do that to Bobby, wouldn’t push him into something he didn’t really want. Because no matter what everybody else thought, John didn’t relish the idea of corrupting the golden boy.
But it’d be easy, so easy, and John just knew that one day temptation might prove too much to resist. He had it all mapped out in his mind, too, a twelve step plan of seduction even a complete moron could implement, and if there were only three steps, all the better. John imagined that one fine morning he’ll wake up and know that today was the day, fireworks included.
And then he will just do it. Take the bottle of vodka he’d found in one of the kitchen cupboards last summer and get Bobby just a little drunk. It’ll be oh so innocent, just buddies fooling around and, whoops, is that my hand on your dick? By then Bobby will be totally lost and John knew how to make it good, so much better than jerking off to dreams of an untouchable girl. A blowjob will follow a few days later, because no matter what else Bobby might be, he was also a teenager and as such in a state of more or less perpetual horniness. After all a mouth was a mouth was a mouth, and John’s was better than most. And for Bobby he’ll do his very best, all soft lips and tongue and heat turned way up - in every sense of the word. Kissing is going to be more tricky but darkness, more alcohol and a recent orgasm ought to be all it will take. And it’ll be sweet and gentle and a whole lot of other things John doesn’t really know anything about. It is hard to imagine what Bobby will taste like. Something wholesome, probably, like apples and chocolate milk or vanilla icecream.
Perhaps he’ll leave it at that for a few days, let Bobby get reacquainted with his own hand. Once he has him nice and desperate, it’ll be time for the next step: teach Bobby how to take. Because to John it was all about taking and what could be better than Bobby, his Bobby, finally getting a clue and it will be fire and ice and all that romantic crap, only that this time it will be true. At that point he’ll just let Bobby take over, let him have anything he wants, really, anything at all, and maybe he’ll even say pretty please and wouldn’t that be a fucking (hah!) first. Bobby will be cold. There might even be ice, long, thin trails of it snaking down John’s chest and, hell, maybe Bobby will want to fuck him. And there’s something of a boy scout in John as well, because he’s always, always prepared. In fact condoms and lube were sitting in a drawer of his nightstand right that moment, waiting to be put to use. And Bobby is such a model student he’ll have read up on this, safer sex lectures and all, and John will be more than happy to show him the finer points. And the best thing was that there was no need for any further plans because this will be IT, capital letters and all.
That was what it was going to be like as far as John was concerned. Except that the fateful day never quite seemed to come and instead of appreciating his heroic self-restraint (which Bobby damn well should, even if he didn’t know anything about it) the other boy was turning away from him, choosing to spend his time with Rogue or the younger kids, or anywhere, really, but in John’s vicinity.
It was … unfair … and even though that was the story of John’s life, he had somehow expected Bobby to be different. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much. In the end, John did what he had always done: feign indifference, act like more of an asshole than usual, and let the pain harden into anger. It was the best way to deal with hurt and John fully expected to wake up one fine morning and have nothing left but fury.
AUTHOR: ayumie
RATING: NC-17, probably
PAIRING: John/Bobby
SUMMARY: And there’s something of a boy scout in John as well, because he’s always, always prepared.
NOTES: Thanks to lea724 for being a wonderful beta-reader. Two short companion pieces. Just trying to get a feeling for the boys before I start a longer fic. C&c welcome!
Not Enough
Bobby Drake was a good kid, the kind teachers cited when they were in need of a positive example. He was polite, handed in homework on time, and generally did his best to put everyone at ease. Bobby Drake was a good kid, except that good kids didn’t keep secrets from friends and teachers alike and good kids certainly didn’t fantasize about their best friend and what they would look like naked, on the bed, bent over his desk, or, God, on his knees in front of him, smiling like it was the best thing ever.
Bobby wasn’t quite sure when it had started - it wasn’t like it had been a conscious decision or anything. One just couldn’t control one’s dreams and, really, wasn’t that the crux of the matter? He used to write it off to frustration, stress, telepaths running amok, anything at all. Only after a few weeks he was rapidly running out of excuses and, God, what would he tell anyone? Because apparently not only did he have to dream about his best friend, his dreams had to keep getting more and more … twisted.
It would start harmless enough. St. John backed against a wall, or better still, the door of their room. For once he wouldn’t be toying with his precious zippo, because it’d be in Bobby’s hand, frozen and useless as he tossed it aside. John would be looking at him in a way usually reserved for fire and things capable of producing it, all dark eyes and parted lips. Then Bobby would kiss him, hard, the way he had always wanted to, and it’d be good, oh so good to feel that mouth yield beneath his. And John would yield, fucking moan as he’d twist a nipple just so, and then Bobby would be groaning as well because by then he’d be grinding against St. John, thigh against groin, and it’d be … perfect.
Change of scene and they’d be on the bed, John beneath him. His hand would be back under St. John’s shirt, or even better, there’d be no shirt, only John and so much bare skin. Bobby would have an arm across his throat, pressing down just hard enough to keep him in place as he touched. St. John would be groaning, bucking, lips forming his name and only that mouth could make something so innocent sound dirty. No pants. No underwear either, and John’s legs would be spread, allowing Bobby to press right down between them. John’s lighter would be back in his hand, perfect conductor for both, heat and cold, and ice could burn, too, and it was high time Johnny learned that much. He’d bring the frozen metal against the inside of John’s thigh, relishing his small scream. Saint fucking John Allerdyce, and how come in his dreams Bobby could curse like he meant it, when in reality it never sounded quite right coming from his mouth?
At that point, things would get a bit blurry. He’d be on top of John, thrusting into clenching heat. Arms around him, legs drawn up high for better access. Howls and moans and curses and Bobby would need to leave marks, anything to proclaim that, yes, he had been there. So he’d bite, scratch, drive himself harder into John and it had to hurt just a little, but somehow that’d make things even better. And, God, Johnny wouldn’t mind, would snarl and arch into his touch and harder and more and Bobby fucking please!
Every time he woke up, Bobby was torn between dread and arousal. He got up and quietly locked himself into the bathroom, bringing himself off with two quick jerks of his hand. Then he debated whether or not to throw up into the toilet. Mostly he ended up sitting in there for a while, back pressed against rapidly cooling tiles as he tried to fill his head with images of Rogue. At Mutant High, even thoughts were too much and this was not a conversation he wanted to have with Dr. Grey - or, God beware, the Professor - like, ever. It was just … wrong. In fact he could hardly bring himself to look at John even under the most innocent of circumstances, because this was John after all and somehow he’d be able to tell. So instead he spent his days hiding behind a girlfriend too caught up in her own troubles to pay him much attention and escaping into the nightly kitchen whenever he thought he couldn’t take it any longer. Of course he knew that things couldn’t continue like this forever, that sooner or later something would happen and break the fragile peace he was struggling so hard to maintain, but when it came down to it, Robert Drake was a good kid and nobody had ever taught him that sometimes that wasn’t enough.
Being Good
St. John Allerdyce knew what people saw when they looked at him. The bad boy, the troublemaker. Most of the time he didn’t mind, played on it when it was to his advantage. As often as not, he even thought that they were right. He liked to have the upper hand, know something other people didn’t, be able to do something they didn’t expect, and he could never resist the temptation to rub their faces in it. He didn’t do apologies, polite lies and, most importantly, self-sacrifice. In fact sacrifices in any shape and form were to be avoided at all costs.
But as John knew, there was an exception to every rule, and his was Bobby Drake, all-American boy-scout and his roommate. For Bobby, John was willing to make excuses, willing to ignore a total lack of street smarts and a staggering amount of bullshit. For Bobby, John was willing to make sacrifices. Considering that he had been wanting the other boy for what felt like forever, he was doing a damn good job at it, too. And it wasn’t that it was impossible, either. In fact, John felt pretty confident about his ability to seduce. Only this was Bobby, his friend, who actually cared about things, and somehow that made John care as well. No, if he could help it, he wouldn’t do that to Bobby, wouldn’t push him into something he didn’t really want. Because no matter what everybody else thought, John didn’t relish the idea of corrupting the golden boy.
But it’d be easy, so easy, and John just knew that one day temptation might prove too much to resist. He had it all mapped out in his mind, too, a twelve step plan of seduction even a complete moron could implement, and if there were only three steps, all the better. John imagined that one fine morning he’ll wake up and know that today was the day, fireworks included.
And then he will just do it. Take the bottle of vodka he’d found in one of the kitchen cupboards last summer and get Bobby just a little drunk. It’ll be oh so innocent, just buddies fooling around and, whoops, is that my hand on your dick? By then Bobby will be totally lost and John knew how to make it good, so much better than jerking off to dreams of an untouchable girl. A blowjob will follow a few days later, because no matter what else Bobby might be, he was also a teenager and as such in a state of more or less perpetual horniness. After all a mouth was a mouth was a mouth, and John’s was better than most. And for Bobby he’ll do his very best, all soft lips and tongue and heat turned way up - in every sense of the word. Kissing is going to be more tricky but darkness, more alcohol and a recent orgasm ought to be all it will take. And it’ll be sweet and gentle and a whole lot of other things John doesn’t really know anything about. It is hard to imagine what Bobby will taste like. Something wholesome, probably, like apples and chocolate milk or vanilla icecream.
Perhaps he’ll leave it at that for a few days, let Bobby get reacquainted with his own hand. Once he has him nice and desperate, it’ll be time for the next step: teach Bobby how to take. Because to John it was all about taking and what could be better than Bobby, his Bobby, finally getting a clue and it will be fire and ice and all that romantic crap, only that this time it will be true. At that point he’ll just let Bobby take over, let him have anything he wants, really, anything at all, and maybe he’ll even say pretty please and wouldn’t that be a fucking (hah!) first. Bobby will be cold. There might even be ice, long, thin trails of it snaking down John’s chest and, hell, maybe Bobby will want to fuck him. And there’s something of a boy scout in John as well, because he’s always, always prepared. In fact condoms and lube were sitting in a drawer of his nightstand right that moment, waiting to be put to use. And Bobby is such a model student he’ll have read up on this, safer sex lectures and all, and John will be more than happy to show him the finer points. And the best thing was that there was no need for any further plans because this will be IT, capital letters and all.
That was what it was going to be like as far as John was concerned. Except that the fateful day never quite seemed to come and instead of appreciating his heroic self-restraint (which Bobby damn well should, even if he didn’t know anything about it) the other boy was turning away from him, choosing to spend his time with Rogue or the younger kids, or anywhere, really, but in John’s vicinity.
It was … unfair … and even though that was the story of John’s life, he had somehow expected Bobby to be different. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much. In the end, John did what he had always done: feign indifference, act like more of an asshole than usual, and let the pain harden into anger. It was the best way to deal with hurt and John fully expected to wake up one fine morning and have nothing left but fury.