REPOST
Kassie has beta’d me for Faith & Freud (BtVS/AtS), Unexpected (SV), Crush (HP) and Contract (HP). This makes series number five, and I still have nothing but love for you, Dark Lord of all things Orange and V V Gay. (Sorry about that Punk’d thing last night)
This is the end. It's been groovy.
Movieverse: X2
Thermal VI: Mercury Rising
“If you were any stupider, you’d totally reverse evolution.”
It’s a harsh statement, but not far off the mark. If anybody but Jubilee had said it, Bobby might be offended, but he did ask her for help in the first place.
“Thanks, Jubes, always good to know that I can come to you for comfort.” Actually though, that’s not technically true.
Bobby came to the kitchen for ice cream for comfort. The fact that Jubilee was already there, eating through half a carton of Baskin Robbins, just meant that Bobby was going to get more comfort than he had previously sought.
Her spoon keeps getting in his way.
“Why the hell would I comfort your dumbass?” she says around a mouthful of mint chocolate chip. “You directly went against all that advice you made me give you.”
“I didn’t know -- it was different when it was happening, you know? And he was right there.” Yes, 'different' is certainly one word for it. In all of Bobby’s dreams about getting together with St. John not once did he really think about Johnny initiating anything. Of course he had hoped, but the idea of it actually happening? It hadn’t really registered at all.
It was like the idea of Rogue running through the halls naked or catching Kitty and Jubilee having sex. Nice concept, not terribly grounded in reality though.
No.
Bobby’s reality is getting ripped a new one by Jubilee, because he’s a wimp. “Where the hell did you want him to be, in the next county over, calling on the phone?”
“You’re hysterical.”
“Whatever. At least I’m not stupid.”
Bobby‘s not disagreeing, but a little sympathy could go a long way right now.
Reaching out, he snags the container and pulls it closer to where he‘s leaning on the kitchen counter. If he can‘t get comfort from his friends then he‘ll get it through his food. “I think we already covered that part. This is the part where you help me before I tell Kitty why her pink nail polish has all those black bits in it.”
“That’s so uncool. You wouldn’t dare.”
“You never know, try me.” Obviously that was an empty threat, because one moment Bobby’s holding the ice cream and the next Jubilee is. And to think, she claimed she was out of practice stealing-wise.
“Because I’m your friend, I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just threaten me. I understand that you’re stressed, and that you know I’d fuck you up permanently if you ratted me out,” she says calmly, stabbing at the ice cream with her spoon. “Besides, your problems are my problems. When you’re happy I’m happy, and right now you are not happy. Plus, you’re totally making the ice cream impossible to eat cos it’s too hard. Work with me here, please?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but stops when he gets a look at the ice crystals on the bowl of his spoon. Huh. Slightly stressed out perhaps. Instead he gives Jubilee a sheepish grin, and taps his spoon against the Formica counter while she microwaves the ice cream into something more edible.
She keeps talking to him over the hum of the microwave. “I just don’t get it. I mean what exactly is the problem? I know you want him, every other word out your mouth is ‘Johnny this’ or ‘St. John that’ so, what the fuck is your problem? Why’d you run?”
“Because.”
“I’m going to ‘because’ you in a minute, freak.”
The microwave pings, and Jubilee takes the ice cream out, setting it on the counter just out of arms reach. That seems to be a running theme in Bobby’s life these days. “What if I fuck it up?” he says finally, almost desperate.
It’s a problem he’s been thinking about all morning long. Ever since he bolted from the bedroom and wound up hiding out in the living room with the younger kids, watching Saturday morning cartoons.
It’s not the first time he’s had this thought, but now that there’s a real possibility for something to happen, it seems much more pressing. Yes, Bobby is attracted to St. John. Yes, he very much wants to be involved with him in the more-than-friends sense, but what if something goes terribly wrong? What if he fucks it up and loses Johnny permanently?
Bobby’s jolted out of his pity party when Jubilee pushes the carton in front of his face. “Fix it.”
The ice cream has melted into a soup, and Bobby waves his hand over it distractedly. At least he’s good for something besides icicles these days.
Nodding appreciatively, she takes another spoonful. “Everybody fucks up, Bobby, that’s what being a grown-up is all about.”
“We’re not grown-ups,” he reminds her, batting her spoon away so he can get a mouthful.
“Speak for yourself, and isn’t that all the more reason to try now before you get too old? I mean, what if you guys have something really good, only you don’t know it cos somebody’s too chickenshit to say something?”
“I am not a chickenshit.”
“If it walks like a chicken and talks like a chicken, even though it keeps its head in the ground like an ostrich…” Bobby would hate to admit it, but maybe Jubes has a point. He’s the one that ran away when he finally had a chance at what he wanted. Still, a man has to maintain a certain… whatever. Fuck. He’s got to stop watching Dr. Phil with Kitty.
“I resent that.”
“Whatever. Look, I’m your friend, I’m not going jack you up - that much - so, you know, stop hiding out in the kitchen and go find him. Drag him in the broom closet or something. To quote Dudley Do-Right, ‘Be constructive’.”
Great, he’s got Jubilee suggesting bad porn and Boris and Natasha as a remedy. He’s so up shit creek. Why does he come to her for advice again? Oh, because he can’t control his powers. Right. He should have stuck with the ice cream as consolation. “Yeah, but, Jubes --”
“No buts. Now get lost before I change my mind and create some big fireworks display that says ‘Bobby + Johnny 4eva.’”
Right, because his infatuation isn’t already all over his face. “You’re sick.”
“That’s why you love me, loser.”
“You wish.”
“No, you wish.”
“No, I have enough problems already.”
*
It’s not avoiding if Bobby’s been training in the Danger Room all day long.
He needs to train; training is important. Okay, so maybe training on a Saturday isn’t really that important; but he couldn’t just sit around the mansion all day, jumping at the creak of every floorboard, and praying that Johnny won’t suddenly appear and start playing with his lighter.
Stupid lighter.
Stupid crush.
Stupid Bobby for once again hiding from Johnny, and trying to crawl back to his room after lights out. God, could he be any more pathetic, and could his sneakers squeak just a little louder? Shit.
On the upswing, he’s stopped freezing everything he touches at the thought of St. John. That has to be in improvement. He can’t remember ever being this out of control when he thought about anybody else. Of course, St. John’s not just anybody else. Johnny’s got that mouth and that body, and this is not a thought for Bobby to be having unless he wants to trip over his own two feet and wake up the entire mansion. It’s late, and if Bobby’s lucky, Johnny’s out with the girls, or asleep, or just not in their room. There’s no light on under the door which is good, but since when does their door creak like this?
Doesn’t matter because it’s dark, and Bobby’s tired.
He‘s just going to go --
Click fwoosh.
“Jesus!”
“Where?”
Fuck, man. Just fuck. “Johnny…” Bobby trails off because he has no idea what to say. Johnny’s in his own bed, playing with that lighter, and he looks… well, he looks like himself. Only shirtless. And hot. Definitely hot.
“How long have you been sitting here? You know there‘s this thing called electricity…” As opposed to sitting in the dark, playing with a lighter, because you’re hot enough to light up all of Westchester County.
Bobby is such a head case. Maybe he should go see the Professor.
Click fwoosh.
“How long have I been sitting here? How long have you been avoiding me?” Well, if Johnny wants to get all technical about it. Shit.
“I -- I’m sorry?”
“You keep saying that. It’s getting old, Bobby.” Yeah, Bobby knows the sorry thing is old, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He is sorry. For a lot of things. He should’ve just let Johnny kiss him and realize what a spaz Bobby is. Actually, St. John has probably already realized what a spaz Bobby is. That’s why Bobby’s still standing in the doorway, contemplating trying to make a run for it.
He’s heard the city is really nice this time of year.
“I know, Johnny. I just -- can we talk about it in the morning?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You’re going to shut the door, and then we’re going to talk about it. Right now.”
Click fwoosh.
“Now?” As opposed to the other now, which takes place several light years from this night. Thank you, Han Solo. No, that’s probably not the now that Johnny’s talking about. He’s probably talking about the now that has Bobby shutting the door behind him and taking two steps into their room.
Bobby’s about three steps away from Johnny’s bed and eight steps away from the bathroom. He could try and make a break for the bathroom, freeze the door behind him and hide out for a while. It’s a tempting thought.
“Stop thinking. For once, stop thinking so fucking hard, and tell me what the hell is wrong with you.” Johnny sounds pissed off. Bobby can’t really blame him. He’d be upset if somebody bailed on him mid-kissing attempt too.
“I -- there’s nothing…” No, it’s not nothing. That’s a lie.
Bobby can ruin things now, or he can ruin them later.
Click fwoosh.
God, that stupid lighter. It’s all about that fucking lighter in Johnny’s hand. It’s all about Johnny’s hand, and his mouth and his body. Bobby‘s just stupidly in lust.
Something has to give, but it’s someone else crossing the bedroom and dropping down on the edge of St. John’s bed. It must be someone else, and Bobby’s got ringside seats to watch their friendship get all fucked up. “Could you stop with the fucking lighter already, Johnny?”
Click.
“I can’t see you.”
“You told me to shut off the lighter.” True, and Bobby can’t be a coward forever, although maybe testing that theory isn’t a bad idea. At least it’s dark. At least he won’t see the pity and the anger and all that other stuff that’s probably about to cross St. John’s face.
“So.”
“So, what? What the fuck is your problem, Drake? I don’t want you if you don’t want to be here.” Eh? Bobby’s missed something.
“What are you talking about, Johnny?”
“I like you. I thought you liked me, but the way you keep freaking out on me is telling me I’m wrong.”
“No! No, you’re not wrong. I just -- just don’t want to fuck it, us, up.”
There. He’s said it. The world will self-destruct in three... two...
“People fuck up, because that‘s what they do. That doesn‘t mean they shouldn‘t try.” Out of all the responses Bobby was expecting that was definitely not one of them. So he’s just stupid. Somewhere Jubilee is laughing her ass off.
“So... you’re not freaked out?” This is a really weird conversation to be having in the dark. It’d be much easier if he could see St. John’s face, but Bobby’s the one who wanted lights out. Dumb. Very dumb. And stupid.
“You mean am I upset that you did a disappearing act this morning? What the fuck, of course I am, but it doesn’t matter if you’re serious, right now.”
Serious. Is Bobby serious? Is money green? Does the Pope wear robes? Is Rogue hot? Oh, bad train of thought.
“I am. Serious I mean.”
“Then that’s all that matters.” Oh. Okay. Christ, if Bobby’d known it would be this easy he would’ve said something ages ago. Not that he’s actually said anything now, but no need to be technical. Not when he can feel St. John’s hand on his. Right. Control. No turning the bedroom into a polar ice cap.
“Oh. Good.”
“Yeah. So can I kiss you now, or are you going to turn the room into the North Pole first?”
“No. I mean, yeah, you can kiss me. If you want.”
“Good.”
And it is good. Well, it is once they find each other in the dark, and Johnny’s got the warmest mouth that Bobby’s ever kissed. It’s like, like nothing else that Johnny can think of. One minute he’s sitting on the side of Johnny’s bed, counting steps to the door and the next he’s kissing that mouth. That amazing mouth with those soft lips and that wet tongue. Very wet tongue. God, he could have been doing this hours ago.
He’s so stupid.
He’s so being pulled onto the bed. Onto Johnny.
Right, no freezing the boy with the hot mouth.
There are hands on Bobby’s face, turning his head and angling his mouth. There are lips on his, sucking on his lower lip and making him moan. Bobby never wants to stop kissing St. John. He has no idea where to put his hands. He scrabbles with fists full of duvet before tentatively laying his hands on Johnny’s shoulders. Johnny’s bare shoulders.
He sounds really piteous when St. John pulls his mouth away.
“Stop thinking so hard.”
“I --”
“I know where my lighter is, I won’t let you freeze me.”
Bobby laughs. It feels right. Almost as right as shifting on the bed so that they’re better aligned, so that Bobby can touch all that smooth, warm skin he’s been dreaming about. Except that dreams don’t normally measure up to reality. This is better. Everything is better, and Bobby’s hands are shaking as he slides a hand up St. John’s chest, fingers lingering on sharp collarbones.
“This is better without the clothes you know.” And Bobby laughs again, because he can. Because they’re friends, and it’s okay. It’ll be okay. He gets to his knees and tangles his arms up in discarding his shirt, gasping at the feel of St. John’s hands gliding over his chest, pinching his nipples.
“You like that?”
“Yeah. Yes.” It’s not just Johnny’s hands, but his voice, and the words, and once Bobby gets his shirt off, he has to sit back and to kick off his sneakers. It never takes Bobby this long to get undressed normally, of course, normally, he doesn’t have a shirtless Johnny waiting for him.
Bobby’s shoes hit the floor with a thud, and he’s just reaching down to take off his jeans when --
Click fwoosh.
The glare from the lighter is a shock, and Bobby freezes, blinking rapidly, his fingers tangled in the buttons of his jeans.
“I want to see you,” St. John says. The lighter is right in front of Johnny’s face, illuminating his mouth, and Bobby is stunned not just by the words, but by the sight of the blankets pooled around Johnny’s waist. Bobby can’t see the waistband of any kind of pajama bottoms. He can’t believe he didn’t notice that earlier. He can believe that if he doesn’t get his jeans off now, he’s going to have an accident. So it’s only by the grace of somebody that Bobby manages to kick off his boxers and jeans. Speed has never been one of his gifts, but it takes him no time to scramble back to where St. John is.
Bobby’s mouth falls open when he pulls back the sheets, because naked St. John is really something to see. That doesn’t stop him from pausing mid-gape. “You’re not going to fuck me holding that are you?”
Bobby’s always done deadpan well, and the ‘click’ of the lighter being shut is drowned out by Johnny’s laughter.
With the loss of the lighter they’re plunged into darkness again, but Bobby doesn’t need to see to know where he wants to be. The sheets are down around St. John’s knees, and Bobby stretches out on top, moaning softly when their cocks brush together. His hands make up for lost time by stroking along Johnny’s ribs, and Bobby shifts his weight to his knees and elbows so that he can rub against the body below him.
They knock noses when Bobby leans down to kiss St. John, but that doesn’t keep him from sucking hungrily on Johnny’s tongue. He can just imagine that mouth other places, and his cock twitches insistently.
He drags his mouth away reluctantly, nipping along St. John’s jaw line until he reaches his ear. “I want - can I touch you?”
The response is husky, and it’s only when Bobby finds himself flipped onto his back that he realizes what St. John has said. It doesn’t make sense in relation to the hard cock brushing against his stomach, or the mouth so intent on sucking away his ability to communicate.
“Nahhh?” Bobby’s repeats, the word taking on new letters at the feel of Johnny shifting, one leg being pushed between Bobby’s. There are arms and things entwined with Bobby’s, and he can feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead.
It’s been fucking ages since Bobby’s sweat, and fucking. Oh. Fucking. Is that what’s going to happen?
“Fuck me,” winds up being more of a question than a statement, but Bobby’s not going to beg. No, no begging. Even though they’re hot, and naked, and writhing together on these sheets on St. John’s bed. Bobby’s never even had sex, but this is Johnny. Plus, Bobby’s cock is going to break, or something, and soon. He needs help. He just needs. He doesn’t care what he gets.
However, St. John’s “no,” is shrouded in the feel of his cock rubbing against Bobby’s, and at first Bobby doesn’t even catch it. He’s too busy trying to touch every inch of St. John and direct their mouths together. Johnny keeps biting him. Not that this is a bad thing, but Bobby processes the second ‘no’ in the last two minutes, and the words are directly contradictory to Johnny’s actions.
Bobby’s brain can’t reconcile what’s happening, and it keeps telling him he should be pretty fucking happy with the sweaty boy on top of him and to shut the hell up. Obviously his mouth didn’t get that announcement. Except that his “Why?” becomes some sort of a high-pitched call, and it takes Bobby several seconds to realize he’s just come, probably because his brain has melted out his ears.
Iceman has turned into water, and Bobby falls back into himself with Johnny’s mouth nipping at his earlobe. Bobby just came, all over Johnny’s stomach. Does this mean ‘game over?’ Fuck. Fuckfuck - eh.
Bobby’s automatic need to apologize is silenced by Johnny’s mouth over his, speaking against Bobby’s lips and sucking away all his words. Well, it’s either Johnny’s lips, or when he places Bobby’s hand on his cock.
”I think you’ve already got some practice at this, why not show me how good you are,” goes in one ear and takes up residence in Bobby’s brain. It’s never going to leave. Bobby will never be able to hear St. John speak again without hearing this idea, and his cock twitches painfully. Very painfully.
Truthfully, Bobby didn’t process half of what St. John said but the action and the idea are all quite clear in his brain. Bobby’s hand knows what to do, and his thumb begins sliding over the head of St. John’s cock even as Johnny’s attempting to get on all fours for better traction. The bed jerks as St. John pulls on the mattress, and Bobby lets go just long enough to lick the palm of his hand before he reasserts his grasp.
Bobby’s going to give Johnny a hand job. He’s going to give Johnny the hand job of all fucking time. His hand twists and slides of its own accord, and St. John is thrusting into Bobby’s hand, slick and tight and loud. It’s like being fucked. Kinda. Bobby’s not sure, but he guesses, and his body is willing to find out. Just later, because right now there is only this, and Bobby grips the back of St. John’s neck and pulls him into a wet, dirty kiss. His tongue suggesting all the things that Bobby wants tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after that.
His hand moves from St. John’s neck, down a slick back, and over a sharp hipbone to cup St. John’s balls in a warm, damp hand. Yes, Bobby prefers the two-handed approach, and there is a very sharp bite to Bobby’s tongue when St. John comes.
When Johnny pulls away to gasp for air, Bobby can taste the copper along with sweat, and the collapse of St. John on top of him leaves him more than a little breathless himself. The shifting of their bodies is slow, languorous, and Bobby blinks at the feel of lips brushing over his forehead.
After several seconds Johnny leans over the side of the bed and snags the closest piece of clothing, which just happens to be Bobby’s Knicks shirt. Under other circumstances Bobby wouldn’t allow anyone to touch said shirt, let alone clean off with it. But they did just have sex, and Bobby wants a repeat, lots of repeat, performances.
After wiping himself down, Bobby rolls onto his side, waiting for Johnny. “It’s kinda damp in your bed,” he begins as the mattress creaks, and St. John shifts behind him.
An arm comes down over Bobby’s waist, which he adjusts slightly. His cock is already interested in round two, but still. Mentally, he’s fucking exhausted, it takes a lot to be in lust with your best friend. “You can always sleep in yours, give you something else to mess up.”
“Yeah,” Bobby says, “you coming?”
Bobby can feel St. John’s smile in the curve of his neck. “Give me a minute.”
THE END
Yes, the real ‘the end.’
On behalf of myself and my porn’d out boys, I’d like to say thank you to Kassie for being, well, herself. I’d also like to thank everyone who’s sent me feedback and comments and taken the time to recc this. I appreciate it immensely.
Previous sections can be found here.
This is the end. It's been groovy.
Movieverse: X2
Thermal VI: Mercury Rising
“If you were any stupider, you’d totally reverse evolution.”
It’s a harsh statement, but not far off the mark. If anybody but Jubilee had said it, Bobby might be offended, but he did ask her for help in the first place.
“Thanks, Jubes, always good to know that I can come to you for comfort.” Actually though, that’s not technically true.
Bobby came to the kitchen for ice cream for comfort. The fact that Jubilee was already there, eating through half a carton of Baskin Robbins, just meant that Bobby was going to get more comfort than he had previously sought.
Her spoon keeps getting in his way.
“Why the hell would I comfort your dumbass?” she says around a mouthful of mint chocolate chip. “You directly went against all that advice you made me give you.”
“I didn’t know -- it was different when it was happening, you know? And he was right there.” Yes, 'different' is certainly one word for it. In all of Bobby’s dreams about getting together with St. John not once did he really think about Johnny initiating anything. Of course he had hoped, but the idea of it actually happening? It hadn’t really registered at all.
It was like the idea of Rogue running through the halls naked or catching Kitty and Jubilee having sex. Nice concept, not terribly grounded in reality though.
No.
Bobby’s reality is getting ripped a new one by Jubilee, because he’s a wimp. “Where the hell did you want him to be, in the next county over, calling on the phone?”
“You’re hysterical.”
“Whatever. At least I’m not stupid.”
Bobby‘s not disagreeing, but a little sympathy could go a long way right now.
Reaching out, he snags the container and pulls it closer to where he‘s leaning on the kitchen counter. If he can‘t get comfort from his friends then he‘ll get it through his food. “I think we already covered that part. This is the part where you help me before I tell Kitty why her pink nail polish has all those black bits in it.”
“That’s so uncool. You wouldn’t dare.”
“You never know, try me.” Obviously that was an empty threat, because one moment Bobby’s holding the ice cream and the next Jubilee is. And to think, she claimed she was out of practice stealing-wise.
“Because I’m your friend, I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just threaten me. I understand that you’re stressed, and that you know I’d fuck you up permanently if you ratted me out,” she says calmly, stabbing at the ice cream with her spoon. “Besides, your problems are my problems. When you’re happy I’m happy, and right now you are not happy. Plus, you’re totally making the ice cream impossible to eat cos it’s too hard. Work with me here, please?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but stops when he gets a look at the ice crystals on the bowl of his spoon. Huh. Slightly stressed out perhaps. Instead he gives Jubilee a sheepish grin, and taps his spoon against the Formica counter while she microwaves the ice cream into something more edible.
She keeps talking to him over the hum of the microwave. “I just don’t get it. I mean what exactly is the problem? I know you want him, every other word out your mouth is ‘Johnny this’ or ‘St. John that’ so, what the fuck is your problem? Why’d you run?”
“Because.”
“I’m going to ‘because’ you in a minute, freak.”
The microwave pings, and Jubilee takes the ice cream out, setting it on the counter just out of arms reach. That seems to be a running theme in Bobby’s life these days. “What if I fuck it up?” he says finally, almost desperate.
It’s a problem he’s been thinking about all morning long. Ever since he bolted from the bedroom and wound up hiding out in the living room with the younger kids, watching Saturday morning cartoons.
It’s not the first time he’s had this thought, but now that there’s a real possibility for something to happen, it seems much more pressing. Yes, Bobby is attracted to St. John. Yes, he very much wants to be involved with him in the more-than-friends sense, but what if something goes terribly wrong? What if he fucks it up and loses Johnny permanently?
Bobby’s jolted out of his pity party when Jubilee pushes the carton in front of his face. “Fix it.”
The ice cream has melted into a soup, and Bobby waves his hand over it distractedly. At least he’s good for something besides icicles these days.
Nodding appreciatively, she takes another spoonful. “Everybody fucks up, Bobby, that’s what being a grown-up is all about.”
“We’re not grown-ups,” he reminds her, batting her spoon away so he can get a mouthful.
“Speak for yourself, and isn’t that all the more reason to try now before you get too old? I mean, what if you guys have something really good, only you don’t know it cos somebody’s too chickenshit to say something?”
“I am not a chickenshit.”
“If it walks like a chicken and talks like a chicken, even though it keeps its head in the ground like an ostrich…” Bobby would hate to admit it, but maybe Jubes has a point. He’s the one that ran away when he finally had a chance at what he wanted. Still, a man has to maintain a certain… whatever. Fuck. He’s got to stop watching Dr. Phil with Kitty.
“I resent that.”
“Whatever. Look, I’m your friend, I’m not going jack you up - that much - so, you know, stop hiding out in the kitchen and go find him. Drag him in the broom closet or something. To quote Dudley Do-Right, ‘Be constructive’.”
Great, he’s got Jubilee suggesting bad porn and Boris and Natasha as a remedy. He’s so up shit creek. Why does he come to her for advice again? Oh, because he can’t control his powers. Right. He should have stuck with the ice cream as consolation. “Yeah, but, Jubes --”
“No buts. Now get lost before I change my mind and create some big fireworks display that says ‘Bobby + Johnny 4eva.’”
Right, because his infatuation isn’t already all over his face. “You’re sick.”
“That’s why you love me, loser.”
“You wish.”
“No, you wish.”
“No, I have enough problems already.”
*
It’s not avoiding if Bobby’s been training in the Danger Room all day long.
He needs to train; training is important. Okay, so maybe training on a Saturday isn’t really that important; but he couldn’t just sit around the mansion all day, jumping at the creak of every floorboard, and praying that Johnny won’t suddenly appear and start playing with his lighter.
Stupid lighter.
Stupid crush.
Stupid Bobby for once again hiding from Johnny, and trying to crawl back to his room after lights out. God, could he be any more pathetic, and could his sneakers squeak just a little louder? Shit.
On the upswing, he’s stopped freezing everything he touches at the thought of St. John. That has to be in improvement. He can’t remember ever being this out of control when he thought about anybody else. Of course, St. John’s not just anybody else. Johnny’s got that mouth and that body, and this is not a thought for Bobby to be having unless he wants to trip over his own two feet and wake up the entire mansion. It’s late, and if Bobby’s lucky, Johnny’s out with the girls, or asleep, or just not in their room. There’s no light on under the door which is good, but since when does their door creak like this?
Doesn’t matter because it’s dark, and Bobby’s tired.
He‘s just going to go --
Click fwoosh.
“Jesus!”
“Where?”
Fuck, man. Just fuck. “Johnny…” Bobby trails off because he has no idea what to say. Johnny’s in his own bed, playing with that lighter, and he looks… well, he looks like himself. Only shirtless. And hot. Definitely hot.
“How long have you been sitting here? You know there‘s this thing called electricity…” As opposed to sitting in the dark, playing with a lighter, because you’re hot enough to light up all of Westchester County.
Bobby is such a head case. Maybe he should go see the Professor.
Click fwoosh.
“How long have I been sitting here? How long have you been avoiding me?” Well, if Johnny wants to get all technical about it. Shit.
“I -- I’m sorry?”
“You keep saying that. It’s getting old, Bobby.” Yeah, Bobby knows the sorry thing is old, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He is sorry. For a lot of things. He should’ve just let Johnny kiss him and realize what a spaz Bobby is. Actually, St. John has probably already realized what a spaz Bobby is. That’s why Bobby’s still standing in the doorway, contemplating trying to make a run for it.
He’s heard the city is really nice this time of year.
“I know, Johnny. I just -- can we talk about it in the morning?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You’re going to shut the door, and then we’re going to talk about it. Right now.”
Click fwoosh.
“Now?” As opposed to the other now, which takes place several light years from this night. Thank you, Han Solo. No, that’s probably not the now that Johnny’s talking about. He’s probably talking about the now that has Bobby shutting the door behind him and taking two steps into their room.
Bobby’s about three steps away from Johnny’s bed and eight steps away from the bathroom. He could try and make a break for the bathroom, freeze the door behind him and hide out for a while. It’s a tempting thought.
“Stop thinking. For once, stop thinking so fucking hard, and tell me what the hell is wrong with you.” Johnny sounds pissed off. Bobby can’t really blame him. He’d be upset if somebody bailed on him mid-kissing attempt too.
“I -- there’s nothing…” No, it’s not nothing. That’s a lie.
Bobby can ruin things now, or he can ruin them later.
Click fwoosh.
God, that stupid lighter. It’s all about that fucking lighter in Johnny’s hand. It’s all about Johnny’s hand, and his mouth and his body. Bobby‘s just stupidly in lust.
Something has to give, but it’s someone else crossing the bedroom and dropping down on the edge of St. John’s bed. It must be someone else, and Bobby’s got ringside seats to watch their friendship get all fucked up. “Could you stop with the fucking lighter already, Johnny?”
Click.
“I can’t see you.”
“You told me to shut off the lighter.” True, and Bobby can’t be a coward forever, although maybe testing that theory isn’t a bad idea. At least it’s dark. At least he won’t see the pity and the anger and all that other stuff that’s probably about to cross St. John’s face.
“So.”
“So, what? What the fuck is your problem, Drake? I don’t want you if you don’t want to be here.” Eh? Bobby’s missed something.
“What are you talking about, Johnny?”
“I like you. I thought you liked me, but the way you keep freaking out on me is telling me I’m wrong.”
“No! No, you’re not wrong. I just -- just don’t want to fuck it, us, up.”
There. He’s said it. The world will self-destruct in three... two...
“People fuck up, because that‘s what they do. That doesn‘t mean they shouldn‘t try.” Out of all the responses Bobby was expecting that was definitely not one of them. So he’s just stupid. Somewhere Jubilee is laughing her ass off.
“So... you’re not freaked out?” This is a really weird conversation to be having in the dark. It’d be much easier if he could see St. John’s face, but Bobby’s the one who wanted lights out. Dumb. Very dumb. And stupid.
“You mean am I upset that you did a disappearing act this morning? What the fuck, of course I am, but it doesn’t matter if you’re serious, right now.”
Serious. Is Bobby serious? Is money green? Does the Pope wear robes? Is Rogue hot? Oh, bad train of thought.
“I am. Serious I mean.”
“Then that’s all that matters.” Oh. Okay. Christ, if Bobby’d known it would be this easy he would’ve said something ages ago. Not that he’s actually said anything now, but no need to be technical. Not when he can feel St. John’s hand on his. Right. Control. No turning the bedroom into a polar ice cap.
“Oh. Good.”
“Yeah. So can I kiss you now, or are you going to turn the room into the North Pole first?”
“No. I mean, yeah, you can kiss me. If you want.”
“Good.”
And it is good. Well, it is once they find each other in the dark, and Johnny’s got the warmest mouth that Bobby’s ever kissed. It’s like, like nothing else that Johnny can think of. One minute he’s sitting on the side of Johnny’s bed, counting steps to the door and the next he’s kissing that mouth. That amazing mouth with those soft lips and that wet tongue. Very wet tongue. God, he could have been doing this hours ago.
He’s so stupid.
He’s so being pulled onto the bed. Onto Johnny.
Right, no freezing the boy with the hot mouth.
There are hands on Bobby’s face, turning his head and angling his mouth. There are lips on his, sucking on his lower lip and making him moan. Bobby never wants to stop kissing St. John. He has no idea where to put his hands. He scrabbles with fists full of duvet before tentatively laying his hands on Johnny’s shoulders. Johnny’s bare shoulders.
He sounds really piteous when St. John pulls his mouth away.
“Stop thinking so hard.”
“I --”
“I know where my lighter is, I won’t let you freeze me.”
Bobby laughs. It feels right. Almost as right as shifting on the bed so that they’re better aligned, so that Bobby can touch all that smooth, warm skin he’s been dreaming about. Except that dreams don’t normally measure up to reality. This is better. Everything is better, and Bobby’s hands are shaking as he slides a hand up St. John’s chest, fingers lingering on sharp collarbones.
“This is better without the clothes you know.” And Bobby laughs again, because he can. Because they’re friends, and it’s okay. It’ll be okay. He gets to his knees and tangles his arms up in discarding his shirt, gasping at the feel of St. John’s hands gliding over his chest, pinching his nipples.
“You like that?”
“Yeah. Yes.” It’s not just Johnny’s hands, but his voice, and the words, and once Bobby gets his shirt off, he has to sit back and to kick off his sneakers. It never takes Bobby this long to get undressed normally, of course, normally, he doesn’t have a shirtless Johnny waiting for him.
Bobby’s shoes hit the floor with a thud, and he’s just reaching down to take off his jeans when --
Click fwoosh.
The glare from the lighter is a shock, and Bobby freezes, blinking rapidly, his fingers tangled in the buttons of his jeans.
“I want to see you,” St. John says. The lighter is right in front of Johnny’s face, illuminating his mouth, and Bobby is stunned not just by the words, but by the sight of the blankets pooled around Johnny’s waist. Bobby can’t see the waistband of any kind of pajama bottoms. He can’t believe he didn’t notice that earlier. He can believe that if he doesn’t get his jeans off now, he’s going to have an accident. So it’s only by the grace of somebody that Bobby manages to kick off his boxers and jeans. Speed has never been one of his gifts, but it takes him no time to scramble back to where St. John is.
Bobby’s mouth falls open when he pulls back the sheets, because naked St. John is really something to see. That doesn’t stop him from pausing mid-gape. “You’re not going to fuck me holding that are you?”
Bobby’s always done deadpan well, and the ‘click’ of the lighter being shut is drowned out by Johnny’s laughter.
With the loss of the lighter they’re plunged into darkness again, but Bobby doesn’t need to see to know where he wants to be. The sheets are down around St. John’s knees, and Bobby stretches out on top, moaning softly when their cocks brush together. His hands make up for lost time by stroking along Johnny’s ribs, and Bobby shifts his weight to his knees and elbows so that he can rub against the body below him.
They knock noses when Bobby leans down to kiss St. John, but that doesn’t keep him from sucking hungrily on Johnny’s tongue. He can just imagine that mouth other places, and his cock twitches insistently.
He drags his mouth away reluctantly, nipping along St. John’s jaw line until he reaches his ear. “I want - can I touch you?”
The response is husky, and it’s only when Bobby finds himself flipped onto his back that he realizes what St. John has said. It doesn’t make sense in relation to the hard cock brushing against his stomach, or the mouth so intent on sucking away his ability to communicate.
“Nahhh?” Bobby’s repeats, the word taking on new letters at the feel of Johnny shifting, one leg being pushed between Bobby’s. There are arms and things entwined with Bobby’s, and he can feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead.
It’s been fucking ages since Bobby’s sweat, and fucking. Oh. Fucking. Is that what’s going to happen?
“Fuck me,” winds up being more of a question than a statement, but Bobby’s not going to beg. No, no begging. Even though they’re hot, and naked, and writhing together on these sheets on St. John’s bed. Bobby’s never even had sex, but this is Johnny. Plus, Bobby’s cock is going to break, or something, and soon. He needs help. He just needs. He doesn’t care what he gets.
However, St. John’s “no,” is shrouded in the feel of his cock rubbing against Bobby’s, and at first Bobby doesn’t even catch it. He’s too busy trying to touch every inch of St. John and direct their mouths together. Johnny keeps biting him. Not that this is a bad thing, but Bobby processes the second ‘no’ in the last two minutes, and the words are directly contradictory to Johnny’s actions.
Bobby’s brain can’t reconcile what’s happening, and it keeps telling him he should be pretty fucking happy with the sweaty boy on top of him and to shut the hell up. Obviously his mouth didn’t get that announcement. Except that his “Why?” becomes some sort of a high-pitched call, and it takes Bobby several seconds to realize he’s just come, probably because his brain has melted out his ears.
Iceman has turned into water, and Bobby falls back into himself with Johnny’s mouth nipping at his earlobe. Bobby just came, all over Johnny’s stomach. Does this mean ‘game over?’ Fuck. Fuckfuck - eh.
Bobby’s automatic need to apologize is silenced by Johnny’s mouth over his, speaking against Bobby’s lips and sucking away all his words. Well, it’s either Johnny’s lips, or when he places Bobby’s hand on his cock.
”I think you’ve already got some practice at this, why not show me how good you are,” goes in one ear and takes up residence in Bobby’s brain. It’s never going to leave. Bobby will never be able to hear St. John speak again without hearing this idea, and his cock twitches painfully. Very painfully.
Truthfully, Bobby didn’t process half of what St. John said but the action and the idea are all quite clear in his brain. Bobby’s hand knows what to do, and his thumb begins sliding over the head of St. John’s cock even as Johnny’s attempting to get on all fours for better traction. The bed jerks as St. John pulls on the mattress, and Bobby lets go just long enough to lick the palm of his hand before he reasserts his grasp.
Bobby’s going to give Johnny a hand job. He’s going to give Johnny the hand job of all fucking time. His hand twists and slides of its own accord, and St. John is thrusting into Bobby’s hand, slick and tight and loud. It’s like being fucked. Kinda. Bobby’s not sure, but he guesses, and his body is willing to find out. Just later, because right now there is only this, and Bobby grips the back of St. John’s neck and pulls him into a wet, dirty kiss. His tongue suggesting all the things that Bobby wants tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after that.
His hand moves from St. John’s neck, down a slick back, and over a sharp hipbone to cup St. John’s balls in a warm, damp hand. Yes, Bobby prefers the two-handed approach, and there is a very sharp bite to Bobby’s tongue when St. John comes.
When Johnny pulls away to gasp for air, Bobby can taste the copper along with sweat, and the collapse of St. John on top of him leaves him more than a little breathless himself. The shifting of their bodies is slow, languorous, and Bobby blinks at the feel of lips brushing over his forehead.
After several seconds Johnny leans over the side of the bed and snags the closest piece of clothing, which just happens to be Bobby’s Knicks shirt. Under other circumstances Bobby wouldn’t allow anyone to touch said shirt, let alone clean off with it. But they did just have sex, and Bobby wants a repeat, lots of repeat, performances.
After wiping himself down, Bobby rolls onto his side, waiting for Johnny. “It’s kinda damp in your bed,” he begins as the mattress creaks, and St. John shifts behind him.
An arm comes down over Bobby’s waist, which he adjusts slightly. His cock is already interested in round two, but still. Mentally, he’s fucking exhausted, it takes a lot to be in lust with your best friend. “You can always sleep in yours, give you something else to mess up.”
“Yeah,” Bobby says, “you coming?”
Bobby can feel St. John’s smile in the curve of his neck. “Give me a minute.”
THE END
Yes, the real ‘the end.’
On behalf of myself and my porn’d out boys, I’d like to say thank you to Kassie for being, well, herself. I’d also like to thank everyone who’s sent me feedback and comments and taken the time to recc this. I appreciate it immensely.
Previous sections can be found here.