Better find someone to blame.
I am wearing a skirt. I never wear skirts; this is weirder than Snoop announcing he’s clean. Look for pigs with wings in a city near you.
I was trying to write porn. This quasi-porn thing happened instead. Boys…
Movieverse: X2
Chemistry and The Things We Shouldn’t Do
If Bobby had known he was going to wind up having sex on the grass he would have dressed more appropriately. But he didn’t know, so that’s kind of a pointless thought.
Thinking is overrated anyway.
Everything but sex with Johnny is overrated.
Not that Bobby’s having a lot of points right now or doing a lot of thinking, probably because he’s still trying to remember that breathing is a natural thing. Even more natural than having sex with Johnny. Although something seems slightly wrong with that point of view: breathing more natural that sex? No way.
The view of the sky is really good when Bobby’s on his back.
Not that he’s never been on his back before, or even been on his back outside, but this is particularly relevant because he hadn’t even planned to come outside today, as his once-was-white-tee shirt will attest.
Whatever.
He so doesn’t make sense. Like he really cares when there’s a rumpled and grass-stained pyromaniac lying in the grass next to him.
Johnny’s breathing really loudly, and out the corner of his eye Bobby can see him smirking too. Snide bastard. Yes, they just had sex. Again.
Damn teenage hormones.
Bobby probably has grass stains on his shirt.
He’s got to learn some self-control.
Seventy-two minutes ago
Johnny brought this on himself, Bobby is sure of it.
Bobby never would have thought up something this insane if he weren’t desperate.
He wouldn’t be this horny if he hadn’t woken up alone.
If St. John had at least had the decency to take care of Bobby’s morning ‘issue’ then Bobby wouldn’t have had to drag him into the broom closet. But Johnny didn’t help Bobby out, and Rosie Palm just didn’t cut it, so now they’re in the broom closet; and god, what a great fucking broom closet it is.
It doesn’t matter that Bobby never even noticed it until about fifteen minutes ago when Johnny came out of his Chemistry class, lighter in hand, smirk firmly in place. What matters now is that they’re in said closet, and Bobby has St. John up against something - it’s dark, he’s not sure what - and he’s grinding his body against Johnny like he might die otherwise.
Taking his age - seventeen - and current start of arousal, and the flamable nature of his partner into consideration this is not entirely without possibility.
Bobby’s hands are everywhere he can reach: under shirts, on the nape of a warm neck, lightly pinching hard nipples and scraping at the small of St. John’s back. Bobby just wants. Fuck school. Fuck classes. Fuck lunch, and responsibilities and anything that is not going to get him laid right the fuck now. Lots of cursing is indicative of Bobby’s one-track mind, and he can feel St. John’s lighter being pressed into his crotch.
He’s fucking himself against a lighter? Now that’s new. Not entirely unwelcome but definitely new. Someone is going to require an intervention soon, just as soon as Bobby gets off.
Christ, Johnny’s mouth is warm next to his ear. The shuddering is starting, just a few more seconds and the orgasm should --
“Drake. Drake, slow down.”
Warm words. Warm breath - wait. Is he fucking joking? “Later.” Bobby’s so close. To think he used to substitute his hand for a body, this body. “Anything, later.”
“Bobby -“
“Please?”
Bobby used to pride himself on his restraint: he thought before he spoke; looked where he was going before crossing the street; made sure to cross his ‘t’s and dot his ‘i’s before handing his homework in. In short, he was boring. And he was a dork.
Then puberty hit, and things got more interesting.
And then Bobby became interested in his roommate, started turning the bathroom into a hockey rink on a regular basis, and things got really interesting. Almost as interesting as Johnny’s hand tugging on his jeans and those lips nuzzling his neck.
Bobby has a kink entitled St. John Allerdyce. Occasionally, if Bobby’s really good, this kink will nip at his earlobes and suck on that soft spot behind his right ear.
Bobby has been bad.
That’s why his kink is pulling away.
Click fwoosh.
Bobby is going to drop Johnny’s lighter in the nearest body of water.
“Don’t do that in here, dumbass, dust bunnies are flammable.”
“Okay, because you look a little disoriented I’m going to act like you didn’t just say that, but Drake, you need to get a grip.”
Bobby’s mouth opens, and all sorts of things are about to come out: expletives, rude lines about grips, hard-ons and boyfriends who aren’t there in the morning, but the words die out when the door opens and the room is flooded with light.
“I could smell you two down the hall,” the silhouette barks, and Bobby’s persistent erection dies a thousand deaths from shock. He might join it shortly. He stares for several seconds, blinking his eyes at the change in light and the cigar smoke clouding Wolverine’s head.
Bobby’s hand covers Johnny’s mouth just as it’s opening. “We were….” he begins before realizing lying is kind of pointless right now.
“Go outside.” Wolverine’s tone implies the lack of options available. “Get some air. Kill something; I don’t care, just do it. Now.”
Thirty-six minutes ago
It’s a simple concept:
Bobby tosses the match into the air, Johnny lights it, Bobby freezes it, and voila, frozen matches.
It’s supposed to be fun exercise. A game. Only allowed outside of course, hence their current position on the east lawn by the trees, but the Professor said it was supposed to help them relax and work together: powers in harmony or some shit like that. Sometimes they build enormous frozen houses of matchsticks.
But not today.
Today, Bobby’s about as relaxed as a corpse in rigor mortis, and the idea is about as effective as wet firewood. He’s iced four trees by mistake, and Johnny’s nearly set the lawn on fire twice.
The exercise would probably work a lot better if Bobby weren’t lying against Johnny’s knees.
The exercise would definitely work a lot better if Bobby’s dick weren’t trying to make a comeback after pulling a Houdini in the closet. “My legs are falling asleep, Drake.” Bobby can feel St. John attempting to shift on the grass underneath him.
Bobby wouldn’t mind being underneath Johnny. Or he wouldn’t if Johnny weren’t being such a prude.
“Do you not like me anymore or something?” he blurts out at the exact same time that Johnny tosses a match into the air. Apparently Bobby’s caught St. John off guard, because he completely forgets to light the match, and it lands on top of its brothers and sisters, its cardboard brown a stark contrast.
Suddenly there’s a lot of shifting of legs under Bobby, and he’s unceremoniously dumped onto his back. The grass tickles under his neck, and from this point Johnny looms large over him. “What the hell makes you say that?”
“Because,” Bobby begins, squinting in the face of the sun behind St. John. “You know, in the closet.”
There’s a long moment of silence. Johnny’s face is just one big shadow.
“We were in the closet, Bobby.”
“I know. I was there.”
There’s another long pause.
“I’m not trying to hide in the closet,” St. John says finally.
“Oh.”
Eighteen minutes ago
Sometimes Bobby does stupid things, sometimes he says the wrong thing, but his heart is in the right place.
He thinks that’s what counts.
The earth feels strangely lumpy underneath him, and the sky seems very far away. “I’m not ashamed of you, if that’s what you mean,” he says at last, turning his head to observe St. John assaulting random blades of grass.
Johnny head snaps up, and he considers Bobby for several seconds. Taking a blade of grass, he positions it between his thumbs and blows, making a reedy whistle. Bobby’s never seen anybody actually able to make that work. Only Johnny.
“I never thought you were.”
“So why…why with the weirdness?”
“Because.” St. John drops the blade of grass and wipes his hands on his jeans. Out comes the lighter. “I’m not sure what it is you want.”
Click fwoosh.
“You. Us. This. Look, I sound like a fucking soap opera, but I’m serious.” Bobby struggles to get his elbows under him so he can prop himself up. “I know I’m not experienced or whatever, but I’m not confused about you.”
Bobby lifts his hand to shield his eyes because the sun is blinding today, and he can’t see St. John’s face with all the shadow it’s creating. He arranges himself just in time to get knocked flat on his back by 165 pounds of Johnny.
It hurts.
He’ll live.
Nine minutes ago
Johnny has some of the sharpest teeth Bobby’s ever had the fortune to get marked by.
Not that Bobby’s been marked a lot, or even by anybody, but he’s pretty sure that St. John’s an anomaly in more than the mutant way. Bobby never even gave his sexuality much thought until he started jerking off to thoughts of his roommate, but he can think about his indecision later, too.
No decisions have to be made right now, except perhaps that Johnny will never be allowed to wear button-fly jeans again, because they are fucking awful. Bobby’s breaking a sweat trying to get them open. His hands just can’t get to grips, and he grins stupidly when Johnny finally bats his hands away and undoes the buttons himself. It’s like watching a strip show, he thinks, but whatever to thinking because there’s a really hot half dressed boy in top of Bobby demanding his attention.
Every time they have sex - which okay, isn’t as much as Bobby would like - he’s amazed how they don’t create their own steam room because, wow, Johnny is hot and with all that friction. Well.
Only Johnny seems able to make Bobby sweat. Only St. John seems to make Bobby do a lot of things, and Bobby hopes that Johnny understands that: that he’s needed. Yes, Bobby needs to kiss that mouth, and yes, apparently he gets a bit crazed when he can’t grope Johnny freely, but it’s not just about the sex. Although that’s nothing to forget about.
But they have more. They’re friends. They understand each other. They don’t take each other for granted.
That’s why Bobby’s crazy about Johnny.
There are some things it doesn’t do to forget.
-finis-
Virtue and wine, cannot help, you swim
Pain and sorrow must come if you go
If you go...
It´s the chemistry and the things we shouldn't do
I am nothing without you
Notes: Title from ‘Virtue and Wine’ by Sondre Lerche, one of the most charming up-coming artist you’ve never heard of.
I was trying to write porn. This quasi-porn thing happened instead. Boys…
Movieverse: X2
Chemistry and The Things We Shouldn’t Do
If Bobby had known he was going to wind up having sex on the grass he would have dressed more appropriately. But he didn’t know, so that’s kind of a pointless thought.
Thinking is overrated anyway.
Everything but sex with Johnny is overrated.
Not that Bobby’s having a lot of points right now or doing a lot of thinking, probably because he’s still trying to remember that breathing is a natural thing. Even more natural than having sex with Johnny. Although something seems slightly wrong with that point of view: breathing more natural that sex? No way.
The view of the sky is really good when Bobby’s on his back.
Not that he’s never been on his back before, or even been on his back outside, but this is particularly relevant because he hadn’t even planned to come outside today, as his once-was-white-tee shirt will attest.
Whatever.
He so doesn’t make sense. Like he really cares when there’s a rumpled and grass-stained pyromaniac lying in the grass next to him.
Johnny’s breathing really loudly, and out the corner of his eye Bobby can see him smirking too. Snide bastard. Yes, they just had sex. Again.
Damn teenage hormones.
Bobby probably has grass stains on his shirt.
He’s got to learn some self-control.
Seventy-two minutes ago
Johnny brought this on himself, Bobby is sure of it.
Bobby never would have thought up something this insane if he weren’t desperate.
He wouldn’t be this horny if he hadn’t woken up alone.
If St. John had at least had the decency to take care of Bobby’s morning ‘issue’ then Bobby wouldn’t have had to drag him into the broom closet. But Johnny didn’t help Bobby out, and Rosie Palm just didn’t cut it, so now they’re in the broom closet; and god, what a great fucking broom closet it is.
It doesn’t matter that Bobby never even noticed it until about fifteen minutes ago when Johnny came out of his Chemistry class, lighter in hand, smirk firmly in place. What matters now is that they’re in said closet, and Bobby has St. John up against something - it’s dark, he’s not sure what - and he’s grinding his body against Johnny like he might die otherwise.
Taking his age - seventeen - and current start of arousal, and the flamable nature of his partner into consideration this is not entirely without possibility.
Bobby’s hands are everywhere he can reach: under shirts, on the nape of a warm neck, lightly pinching hard nipples and scraping at the small of St. John’s back. Bobby just wants. Fuck school. Fuck classes. Fuck lunch, and responsibilities and anything that is not going to get him laid right the fuck now. Lots of cursing is indicative of Bobby’s one-track mind, and he can feel St. John’s lighter being pressed into his crotch.
He’s fucking himself against a lighter? Now that’s new. Not entirely unwelcome but definitely new. Someone is going to require an intervention soon, just as soon as Bobby gets off.
Christ, Johnny’s mouth is warm next to his ear. The shuddering is starting, just a few more seconds and the orgasm should --
“Drake. Drake, slow down.”
Warm words. Warm breath - wait. Is he fucking joking? “Later.” Bobby’s so close. To think he used to substitute his hand for a body, this body. “Anything, later.”
“Bobby -“
“Please?”
Bobby used to pride himself on his restraint: he thought before he spoke; looked where he was going before crossing the street; made sure to cross his ‘t’s and dot his ‘i’s before handing his homework in. In short, he was boring. And he was a dork.
Then puberty hit, and things got more interesting.
And then Bobby became interested in his roommate, started turning the bathroom into a hockey rink on a regular basis, and things got really interesting. Almost as interesting as Johnny’s hand tugging on his jeans and those lips nuzzling his neck.
Bobby has a kink entitled St. John Allerdyce. Occasionally, if Bobby’s really good, this kink will nip at his earlobes and suck on that soft spot behind his right ear.
Bobby has been bad.
That’s why his kink is pulling away.
Click fwoosh.
Bobby is going to drop Johnny’s lighter in the nearest body of water.
“Don’t do that in here, dumbass, dust bunnies are flammable.”
“Okay, because you look a little disoriented I’m going to act like you didn’t just say that, but Drake, you need to get a grip.”
Bobby’s mouth opens, and all sorts of things are about to come out: expletives, rude lines about grips, hard-ons and boyfriends who aren’t there in the morning, but the words die out when the door opens and the room is flooded with light.
“I could smell you two down the hall,” the silhouette barks, and Bobby’s persistent erection dies a thousand deaths from shock. He might join it shortly. He stares for several seconds, blinking his eyes at the change in light and the cigar smoke clouding Wolverine’s head.
Bobby’s hand covers Johnny’s mouth just as it’s opening. “We were….” he begins before realizing lying is kind of pointless right now.
“Go outside.” Wolverine’s tone implies the lack of options available. “Get some air. Kill something; I don’t care, just do it. Now.”
Thirty-six minutes ago
It’s a simple concept:
Bobby tosses the match into the air, Johnny lights it, Bobby freezes it, and voila, frozen matches.
It’s supposed to be fun exercise. A game. Only allowed outside of course, hence their current position on the east lawn by the trees, but the Professor said it was supposed to help them relax and work together: powers in harmony or some shit like that. Sometimes they build enormous frozen houses of matchsticks.
But not today.
Today, Bobby’s about as relaxed as a corpse in rigor mortis, and the idea is about as effective as wet firewood. He’s iced four trees by mistake, and Johnny’s nearly set the lawn on fire twice.
The exercise would probably work a lot better if Bobby weren’t lying against Johnny’s knees.
The exercise would definitely work a lot better if Bobby’s dick weren’t trying to make a comeback after pulling a Houdini in the closet. “My legs are falling asleep, Drake.” Bobby can feel St. John attempting to shift on the grass underneath him.
Bobby wouldn’t mind being underneath Johnny. Or he wouldn’t if Johnny weren’t being such a prude.
“Do you not like me anymore or something?” he blurts out at the exact same time that Johnny tosses a match into the air. Apparently Bobby’s caught St. John off guard, because he completely forgets to light the match, and it lands on top of its brothers and sisters, its cardboard brown a stark contrast.
Suddenly there’s a lot of shifting of legs under Bobby, and he’s unceremoniously dumped onto his back. The grass tickles under his neck, and from this point Johnny looms large over him. “What the hell makes you say that?”
“Because,” Bobby begins, squinting in the face of the sun behind St. John. “You know, in the closet.”
There’s a long moment of silence. Johnny’s face is just one big shadow.
“We were in the closet, Bobby.”
“I know. I was there.”
There’s another long pause.
“I’m not trying to hide in the closet,” St. John says finally.
“Oh.”
Eighteen minutes ago
Sometimes Bobby does stupid things, sometimes he says the wrong thing, but his heart is in the right place.
He thinks that’s what counts.
The earth feels strangely lumpy underneath him, and the sky seems very far away. “I’m not ashamed of you, if that’s what you mean,” he says at last, turning his head to observe St. John assaulting random blades of grass.
Johnny head snaps up, and he considers Bobby for several seconds. Taking a blade of grass, he positions it between his thumbs and blows, making a reedy whistle. Bobby’s never seen anybody actually able to make that work. Only Johnny.
“I never thought you were.”
“So why…why with the weirdness?”
“Because.” St. John drops the blade of grass and wipes his hands on his jeans. Out comes the lighter. “I’m not sure what it is you want.”
Click fwoosh.
“You. Us. This. Look, I sound like a fucking soap opera, but I’m serious.” Bobby struggles to get his elbows under him so he can prop himself up. “I know I’m not experienced or whatever, but I’m not confused about you.”
Bobby lifts his hand to shield his eyes because the sun is blinding today, and he can’t see St. John’s face with all the shadow it’s creating. He arranges himself just in time to get knocked flat on his back by 165 pounds of Johnny.
It hurts.
He’ll live.
Nine minutes ago
Johnny has some of the sharpest teeth Bobby’s ever had the fortune to get marked by.
Not that Bobby’s been marked a lot, or even by anybody, but he’s pretty sure that St. John’s an anomaly in more than the mutant way. Bobby never even gave his sexuality much thought until he started jerking off to thoughts of his roommate, but he can think about his indecision later, too.
No decisions have to be made right now, except perhaps that Johnny will never be allowed to wear button-fly jeans again, because they are fucking awful. Bobby’s breaking a sweat trying to get them open. His hands just can’t get to grips, and he grins stupidly when Johnny finally bats his hands away and undoes the buttons himself. It’s like watching a strip show, he thinks, but whatever to thinking because there’s a really hot half dressed boy in top of Bobby demanding his attention.
Every time they have sex - which okay, isn’t as much as Bobby would like - he’s amazed how they don’t create their own steam room because, wow, Johnny is hot and with all that friction. Well.
Only Johnny seems able to make Bobby sweat. Only St. John seems to make Bobby do a lot of things, and Bobby hopes that Johnny understands that: that he’s needed. Yes, Bobby needs to kiss that mouth, and yes, apparently he gets a bit crazed when he can’t grope Johnny freely, but it’s not just about the sex. Although that’s nothing to forget about.
But they have more. They’re friends. They understand each other. They don’t take each other for granted.
That’s why Bobby’s crazy about Johnny.
There are some things it doesn’t do to forget.
-finis-
Virtue and wine, cannot help, you swim
Pain and sorrow must come if you go
If you go...
It´s the chemistry and the things we shouldn't do
I am nothing without you
Notes: Title from ‘Virtue and Wine’ by Sondre Lerche, one of the most charming up-coming artist you’ve never heard of.